


Her Beacon and Her Shield

by ShannaraIsles



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Camping, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Halamshiral, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Letters, Minor AU, More angst, Past Relationship(s), Really Excruciatingly Slow Burn, Skyhold, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-04 12:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 128,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: Amelia Trevelyan. Mage. Lady. Herald of Andraste. In over her head, and too late to back out now. Cullen Rutherford. Templar. Soldier. Commander of the Inquisition forces. Clawing his way back to some semblance of normality after an horrific decade. What binds them, beyond the Inquisition and the Breach? The political machinations of Meredith Stannard.Very slight AU - and don't panic, Meredith is definitely dead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for an arranged marriage romance, and for some reason, my newest playthrough has inspired this. Not entirely sure where it will go, but comments and kudos are always welcome!
> 
> Bioware owns all, I'm just paddling in their ocean. Also, my work is beta'd by me, and I do miss things. All mistakes are entirely mine.

The prisoner lay on the dusty pallet in the Chantry's cells, unconscious but not at peace. Wherever she was, in the Fade or somewhere else entirely, she was haunted. Her pretty face twisted with horrors the silent watchers could only imagine.

Commander Cullen Rutherford stood outside the cell, his eyes firmly fixed on the prisoner. He had been there when she was tossed from the Breach, her face bloodied and her hand crackling with the eerie green light of the Fade. He'd heard the soldiers' accounts of the woman seen behind her before the rift was sealed; a woman some were already speculating could be Andraste herself. Yet those voices were in the minority. For the majority of Haven, this sole survivor of the cataclysm that had destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Conclave, and their beloved Divine Justinia, was the culprit responsible for all this madness and sorrow. Popular opinion had tried and convicted her in the hours since she had been brought down from the mountain. The people needed someone to blame, and she was it.

Abruptly, the glowing mark on her hand flared in a blinding crack of energy, and the sleeping woman cried out, a loud sob of pain that made even her jailers wince in sympathy. But the only person to react was Adan, the alchemist who had been grudgingly pressed into serving as a healer. He gripped the unconscious woman's wrist, preventing her from pulling her left hand protectively to her chest, observing the fluctuation of her pulse, her breathing, her temperature. No one knew what the mark was, nor how it had been formed. But it was killing her.

Cullen studied the sleeping form with troubled eyes. He absorbed her clothing, finely made but worn with travel, showing no sign of damage by violence. Indeed, the only sign of violence on her person was the gash on her brow, and he knew it had occurred in the moment of impact with the ground, the result of landing heavily among jagged, broken masonry. The wound was ugly, marring the freckled paleness of her smooth face. She was delicately built, but not small. Nor was she tall; her height seemed about average for a human woman. She wore no weapons but a single belt knife; her dark hair was braided and dressed for travel in the style of the Free Marches, though decidedly dishevelled by her misadventures. She did not give the appearance of being a threat to anyone, but for that insidious mark upon her hand.

Shaking his head, Cullen left the cells, reiterating his orders to the guards on duty. He wouldn't put it past the shocked and grieving citizenry of Haven to attempt a lynching, due process be damned. He could not allow that to happen. At the very least, there must be a trial, though he doubted it would be fair. The Chantry would revel in a scapegoat. There were too many people who just wanted to see _someone_ punished, regardless of guilt.

The door ahead of him opened as he mounted the stairs, revealing the scowling countenance of Chancellor Roderick Asignon. Cullen bit back a groan, steeling himself to face the overly-arrogant cleric.

"Is the prisoner still under guard, Knight-Captain?" the chancellor asked, in a tone that just stopped short of being insulting.

"Under guard and in protective custody, chancellor," Cullen told him, his own voice cool. He had little patience for the man, who had tried to order the Right Hand of the Divine to execute the prisoner the moment he became aware of the woman's existence. "And I no longer bear that title."

"Protective custody?" Roderick scoffed. "She should be dragged to Val Royeaux in irons."

"And will you do the dragging personally, chancellor?" Cullen asked in an arch tone. "Or do you plan to interrogate her? Either will prove fruitless until she regains consciousness."

Roderick's scowl deepened on hearing this. Clearly a personal interrogation was exactly what he'd planned.

"If I were you, chancellor, I would return to the faithful and leave security matters to those better suited," Cullen suggested, deliberately barring the man's path. "Surely your duty is to comfort the people in their time of need, not to persecute someone who may be innocent."

"Innocent, indeed!"

"Until proven guilty, yes," Cullen cut him off. "My guards have their orders, chancellor. You will not be allowed within sight of her without an approved escort."

"You take much upon yourself, _commander_ ," Roderick sneered derisively. "A failed templar has no authority over the Chantry."

"By the order of the Divine, Maker rest her soul, I do."

Cullen held his ground, daring the chancellor to deny the authority of the Most Holy, despite her death. Until a new Divine was elected, all Justinia's commands and edicts remained in place, and not even the most ambitious fanatic would find any success in attempting to overturn them. Roderick's jaw set in a grim line, but he turned on his heel, marching out of the Chantry without even taking his leave.

Cullen caught the smirk on the face of the soldier to his right. "That'll do," he warned gently. It wouldn't do for them to be seen enjoying the sight of Chancellor Roderick losing an argument with their commander. "No one is to pass these doors without permission from myself, Lady Seeker Pentaghast, or Lady Leliana."

"Yes, sir."

Nodding to acknowledge the guard's salute, Cullen turned toward the former Revered Mother's quarters, now the base of operations for the Right and Left Hands of the Divine. It was to them he reported, though they both insisted he bore rank equal to theirs. In such turbulent times as these, they might even be right. He pushed open the door, unsurprised to find them both poring over that damned writ once again. In the absence of the Divine, her final contingency plan was to be carried out, it seemed.

Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast was pacing, anxious to have something to _do_ , to be allowed to avenge the death of the Divine on the person she believed to be responsible. Yet she had stayed her hand at a word from Leliana, who believed more was going on here than was at first apparent. The redheaded spymaster was in quiet conversation with the fourth member of their small council, Lady Josephine Montilyet, who was to serve as their ambassador. All three looked to Cullen as he entered.

"Well, commander?" Cassandra asked immediately. "Is the prisoner recovered?"

"No, Lady Cassandra," he told her in a heavy voice. "She has not yet regained consciousness. The mark on her hand is, however, responding to the Breach. Adan fears it may kill her."

"Adan has no understanding of magic beyond the theoretical," Leliana said thoughtfully. "There is an elven apostate who has turned himself over to us, stating a wish to assist in closing the Breach. Perhaps he should examine her."

Cassandra grimaced, but sighed in agreement. "I will observe his examination. Do we know who she is?"

"The only clue we have is the crest on her belt buckle," Leliana mused. "Josephine tells me that it is the Trevelyan crest."

"Unfortunately, there were several Trevelyans at the Conclave, and only a relatively few of them wore distinctive armor or clothing," Josephine interjected, her expression troubled. No doubt she was considering all the political fall out over the sheer number of noble families who had lost at least one member to the disaster on the mountain. "Identifying which Trevelyan survived may prove problematic."

"I have agents working on it," Leliana agreed, "but there is very little to work with."

"Her name is Amelia, and she is the fifth child of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick. She is also a mage."

Three pairs of eyes turned toward Cullen in varying degrees of shock and amazement. Cassandra seemed struck dumb by his sudden display of knowledge; Leliana's lips were quirking into a smile, no doubt recalling the importance of that particular name. But it was Josephine who spoke.

"You seem very certain of your facts, commander," she said carefully. "Yet, by your own account, she has not yet regained consciousness. How could you know this?"

Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he bolstered his courage. This was not something he had ever expected to have to share with these formidable women. "It is a simple enough matter, Lady Montilyet," he told her awkwardly. "You see, Amelia Trevelyan ... is my wife."

For just a moment, he could have sworn he heard a wolf's howl outside the Chantry's thick walls. The silence, however, did not last. Predictably enough, the explosion came from Cassandra.

"Your _wife?_ " The Lady Seeker was aghast. "You are _married_ to the woman who murdered Most Holy?"

"With respect, Lady Cassandra, that is not certain," Cullen began, but he didn't get any further. Cassandra had unsheathed her sword, swinging the blade up to within an inch of his throat.

"She is our only suspect," she spat, incandescent with fury. "Are _you_ responsible for her presence here? Did I invite death to the Conclave by bringing _you_ into our fold?"

"Enough, Cassandra!" Leliana moved to push the blade down, meeting her counterpart's gaze with stern eyes. "If - _if_ \- this Trevelyan is responsible for Justinia's death, there is no evidence to include the commander in her guilt. Cullen grieves as much as all of us. Control yourself."

The air was thick with tension as the Right and Left Hands of the lost Divine battled one another's wills in silence. Cullen dared not move. He had not thought Cassandra would take his news so violently, acutely aware that it was only Leliana's presence that had saved him from being executed on the spot. Yet it was Cassandra who broke that tension, yielding to the sense in Leliana's words. She put up her sword, sheathing it with a snap.

"I ... apologise, commander," she offered in a stiff tone. "I spoke in haste. Your loyalty and innocence are not in question."

"I accept your apology, Lady Cassandra," Cullen answered her, wary of making another misstep. "And I offer my own, to you all. Had I known of Amelia's involvement in the Conclave, I would have informed you of our association."

"You made no mention of a wife when we spoke in Kirkwall, commander," Leliana commented lightly. "But I seem to recall several unions between mage and templar toward the beginning of the end of Meredith's reign."

"Perhaps you should share these facts with us now, commander," Josephine suggested diplomatically. "So we will know best how to shield you, should your wife be proved guilty."

Again, Cullen sighed. He had done many things in his life he felt shame for, but this was one of the worst. "It was Meredith's idea," he confirmed. "An order, in fact. Her paranoia had not yet grown so obvious that I questioned her decision. Two years after Hawke defeated the Arishok, Meredith proposed a series of marriages between prominent templars and mages as a way to mask the increasing divide. To my shame, I agreed immediately. Because of my obedience, my ... loyalty, extra care was taken over the selection of my bride. Amelia Trevelyan was transferred to Kirkwall from the Ostwick Circle for the sole purpose of marrying me."

"Was she consulted at all?" Josephine asked in concern. "Her family?"

"Both her father and mother attended the ceremony, so I must assume they were involved in the negotiations," Cullen told her regretfully. "I never discovered if Amelia was willing, or coerced. I was not ... gentle ... with her, those first months, but she never reproached me or complained. We played the part of a united couple, but in truth, I never troubled myself to learn much about her. She behaved well and never denied me, and that was all I cared about."

He didn't need the disapproval on all three faces before him to feel ashamed of his attitude then. That shame had begun when he had overheard Amelia counseling novices on how to keep from coming to the negative attentions of the templars. She had told them that, though her husband was never cruel, the potential for cruelty existed within him; that she did not wish to invite that cruelty, so she endured and did not complain. Overhearing her advice to young novice mages to do the same had forced him to look at the man he had allowed himself to become, and he had not liked what he saw.

"Her companionship ... changed me," he admitted quietly. "She became the calm centre of my world, the peace I was permitted to return to at the close of each day. I arranged for her transfer back to Ostwick a few months before Kirkwall erupted. I have not seen her since then."

"You protected her from the chaos," Leliana said, her own voice quiet.

"And here she is, at the center of the greatest tragedy of our age," he answered solemnly. "I cannot believe her capable of such evil, and yet ... I have no explanation for her presence at the Conclave."

"In light of your confession, commander, I believe I have," Josephine offered gently. "She is, as you say, a mage. A mage who married a templar, who lived with him as man and wife in Kirkwall, and bore witness to many of the events that lead to the destruction of the Chantry there. Her presence at the Conclave suggests that, despite everything, she believes that peace is still possible. Moreover, she is a Trevelyan. Her family name bears political weight in the Free Marches. But why did you not bring her to Haven yourself?"

Cullen shook his head, letting out a low sigh. "It did not occur to me that she might even consider coming if I were to ask her," he said, accepting the blame onto his already burdened shoulders. "I was not a good husband to her, nor a kind one. I thought she would be safer ... happier ... away from me."

"And it did not occur to any of us to inspect each delegation as they arrived," Cassandra said heavily. "I am not convinced that she is innocent, but ... your assessment of a person's character is rarely wrong, commander. I will attempt to keep an open mind."

"Thank you." He inclined his head to the Lady Seeker, knowing how much that concession cost her. If he was wrong, and Amelia _was_ responsible for all this destruction, he would kill her himself.

"Perhaps we should be looking at those who did _not_ attend," Leliana considered, casting a curious glance toward their ambassador.

"Indeed," Josephine agreed, rifling through her papers. "Both Lord Seeker Lucius and Grand Enchanter Fiona neglected to attend in person, though both sent emissaries. Their absence could be attributed to paranoia ..."

"Or foreknowledge," Leliana finished for her. "I will have my agents look into it."

"I will take this apostate to examine the prisoner," Cassandra said then, eager to distract herself with action. "Commander ... given your association with her, I believe the wiser course would be for you to avoid contact with your wife until her guilt or innocence is assured."

Despite his reluctance to abandon Amelia for the second time in as many years, Cullen knew this made sense. None of them could afford to become compromised. "You may be right," he conceded. "I will rejoin the soldiers securing the Temple. These demon incursions seem to be worsening."

"I think we should refrain from announcing the identity of our guest until we have more information," Josephine decided aloud. When it came to politics and diplomacy, she was certainly adept. "Still, there is much to be done to form a secure foundation for our enterprise."

"Indeed there is," Leliana agreed with her. "Then we all have our tasks. Let us hope it truly was Andraste who delivered her from the Fade. We cannot hold against demons forever."

"If this apostate does his job, we may be able to use that mark on her hand for more than convicting her in her sleep," Cassandra said in a thoughtful tone. "In the absence of guilt, perhaps what it represents is hope."

Cullen glanced to the door, remembering the pathetic sight of Amelia suffering even in her sleep as the mark on her hand grew with each passing hour. Perhaps Cassandra was right. Perhaps the mark was deliverance, of a sort. He could only hope they would have a chance to discover such a thing.

" _If_ she survives."


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't the sound of the door opening that woke her.

No, for Amelia Trevelyan, it was the strange sensation of comfort that drew her swiftly from sleep. For months, she had been on the move, never daring to stay long in any one place for fear the templars would find her and her party. Even at the Conclave, the mage delegation had slept lightly, ready to flee at a moment's notice. Yet the first thing she noticed as consciousness reasserted itself was that only soft linen and fur separated her bare skin from the flickering warmth of the fire she could hear blazing nearby. Her eyes opened slowly, absorbing the oddness of her surroundings. From a prison cell, to ... this. A compact living space - a cabin, very likely - brightened by pale light from windows and the dance of flames in the hearth, the walls bearing loaded shelves and cured hides. She was lying in a bed, stripped to her skin beneath covers that had been tucked warm around her. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make the assumed murderess comfortable.

Hearing the sound of movement close to, she turned her head, startling the young elf watching her curiously.

"Oh!" The elven girl jumped back as their eyes met, dropping the crate she bore with a thump. "I didn't mean to wake you, I swear!"

Despite the strange situation, Amelia felt herself smile gently, pushing herself to sit up. She bore this little one no ill will, after all. "It's all right," she tried to assure the girl. "Don't look so scared, I'm not going to hurt you."

The elf gave her one terrified look and threw herself onto her knees. "Forgive me, great lady, I am not worthy to -"

"Oh, stop that." Amelia frowned down at the girl in irritation, her temper fragile enough after everything that had happened in the last few days. "I'm no more a great lady than you are."

"But you stopped the Breach," the elf protested from the floor. "Everyone's saying you're the Herald of Andraste."

Amelia paused, mentally redrawing her map for this conversation. This girl was cleared awed by something, too much to make coherent sense for a while. "All right," she said again, brushing her loose hair back over her shoulder. "What's your name?"

"E-Elin, milady."

"What a beautiful name." The compliment came easily to her lips, bolstering the confidence of the young elf before her, who all but glowed at her words. "Elin, where are my clothes?"

"Burned, miss." Elin must have seen the shock and consternation on her face, hurrying to add, "Oh, but Harritt's working you up some new armor, miss, and there's clothes here for you to wear." She gestured to the crate she'd dropped.

"Thank you, Elin." Relieved that no one was using her nudity as a means to imprison her, Amelia moved on to the pressing question. "Now, what were you saying about the Breach?"

"That you stopped it, milady," Elin told her, climbing to her feet to rest the crate on a nearby table. "I mean, it's still in the sky, but it's not spitting out demons anymore."

So she _hadn't_ sealed the Breach. Amelia sighed regretfully, glancing down at her marked hand. "All that struggle, for nothing."

"It's not nothing, milady miss, it really isn't," the elven girl insisted. "We slept sound for the first time in days because of you. They say you're touched by Andraste herself."

"Wait a moment ... they're _pleased?_ " Amelia's confused frown only deepened further. "But I didn't finish the task they set me."

"Lady Cassandra says you did more than she thought you could," Elin countered. "She said she wants to see you when you're ready."

"And where is Lady Cassandra, Elin?"

"In the Chantry, with the chancellor," the girl answered swiftly. "I'll go tell her you're awake."

"Thank you, Elin." Amelia remembered to smile at the elf again. She and her family had not made a practice of having exclusively elven servants, as many noble families did, but she understood that a smile and a gentle manner did far more good than imperious cruelty ever could. It had taken her a long time to learn it, though. "Please tell her I will join them as soon as I am presentable."

"Yes, miss. Milady. Herald."

When Elin had stumbled from the little cabin, closing the door firmly behind her, Amelia turned her attention to herself. She remembered the confrontation with the Pride demon, the chaos of the battle raging around her as she struggled to get the mark to obey her will and close that enormous rift in the Veil. She remembered a shade appearing directly before her; the slash of claws piercing her worn leathers to slash deep into the flesh beneath; the hot flow of her own blood freezing in the biting cold. The scream she had released when the mark finally flared to life, scything blistering pain from her palm to her heart; the sensation of being thrown back in a thunderclap of sound and light to strike her head against the crumbling wall of the Temple for the second time. Yet her body was unmarked. No open gashes in her side, no welt under her hair. A sweep of her fingers over her brow revealed that even the scabbed gash on her temple had been swept away. Someone had expended a lot of energy to heal her. Did that mean she was no longer a suspect in this disaster?

That question would not have an answer until she saw Cassandra, she knew. Only the Lady Seeker could declare her innocence, despite Amelia's own lack of memory, or perhaps because of it. And to get that declaration, she was going to have to present herself at the Chantry sooner rather than later.

Wrapping herself in the fur, she slipped awkwardly from the bed, moving to inspect the contents of the crate Elin had brought for her. Sturdy woolen underwear - itchy, but warm in this biting climate; soft hide trews and a wool shirt, both a disappointing beige; a leather coat in a darker hue that fell to her thighs; blessedly, her own boots, re-soled and fixed of their defects. It was a matter of moments to infuse the garments with gentle warmth, tugging them hastily on before her skin could get too chilled. The spell wouldn't last long, sadly, but long enough that her own body should warm the underwear enough that she wouldn't be shivering the moment she set foot outside. Someone had thoughtfully included a leather thong for her hair. Wishing for a comb, she dragged the knots out of the dark length with her fingers, braiding it back simply for now. The mark on her hand, however, gave her a moment's pause. It crackled and shone in a way she felt sure would attract attention in a crowd. The itching pain she could deal with, but the thought of people staring made her insides crawl. A little rummaging in the desk under the window found a strip of hide she could wrap about the offending mark, hiding its sheen from a casual glance. All that was missing was a staff, but there wasn't one in sight. She was just going to have to face a village full of people who wanted her dead ... unarmed. Perhaps she had one of those ever-present guards outside the door who could keep her from being torn to pieces by the vengeful crowd.

As it turned out, she didn't need one. Soldiers lined the route from the cabin where she had woken to the Chantry door, the shocked people of Haven gathered behind their lines. Every eye watched her wary progress in awed silence. For a woman who had made an art of not being noticed, their regard was unnerving. Some even bowed to her as she passed, or raised hands to their hearts in salute, hushed whispers repeating in reverent tones what she had dismissed as hysterical gossip from Elin's lips.

_"That's her. That's the Herald of Andraste ..."_

_"They say Andraste herself delivered her from the Fade ..."_

Utter nonsense, Amelia thought to herself, though she dared not let that thought show on her face. And yet ... there _had_ been a woman, hadn't there? From what little she recalled, a woman had reached out to her, taken her hand. Her _left_ hand, the one which now bore the mark that had somehow stabilized the rift in the Temple. But Amelia was a mage. She knew the Fade and its denizens better than these people. What she, and others, perceived as a woman could easily be a spirit, helping her for some unknown reason of its own. For the sake of her own skin, however, she doubted she was going to announce that anytime soon.

Entering the Chantry building was a blessed relief, though she was still aware of those eyes watching her through the open door as she paused to light a candle, murmuring thanks to the Maker and Andraste for her continued survival. No doubt by the end of the day the story would have grown ... Andraste's carven image smiling at her, or embracing her, even. Some silly embellishment that would create even more misguided folklore. Legends could grow from such wild speculation, and Maker knew she had no desire to be a legend. Recent legends, from her own lifetime, had not had such a wonderful time of it - the Champion of Kirkwall, driven from her own home by zealots and threats; the Hero of Ferelden, killed in the moment of his triumph. A helpful sister caught her eye, directing her toward the door set in the back wall of the nave, from behind which were audible raised voices.

"... and punished for her crimes!"

Amelia hesitated, recognizing that voice. It belonged to that male cleric, the one who wanted her dead despite the lack of evidence. He was the ranking member of the Chantry here now; did his voice hold weight in the aftermath of the Temple?

"That is not necessary."

That was Cassandra, who had apparently changed her mind entirely about killing Amelia. It was a dramatic turn for the Right Hand of the Divine, but Amelia could not help a surge of gratitude toward the Seeker as the chancellor continued.

"You serve the Chantry, and I -"

"I serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, chancellor, as should you."

Uncomfortable with eavesdropping, Amelia pushed open the door, stepping into a windowless room dominated by a large oak table. Lady Cassandra was behind it, glaring at the chancellor, who reacted the moment Amelia came into view.

"Chain her," he demanded imperiously of the guards at her back. "I want her ready for transport to Val Royeaux within the hour."

"Disregard that, and leave us," Cassandra ordered, and to Amelia's relief, it was her order the guards followed. The chancellor - Roderick, that was his name, Roderick Asignon - he did not have the authority he pretended to. All credit to him, though, he kept trying to play his weak hand.

"You walk a dangerous line, Seeker," he warned in a threatening tone. "She should be taken to Val Royeaux to stand trial!"

"I do not believe that."

Amelia stared at Cassandra, her amazed gratitude striking her momentarily dumb. When she found her voice, all she could produce was a weak, "You believe me to be innocent?"

The dark-haired Seeker met her gaze with calm eyes, her expression no longer bearing disdain, but respect. "I do," she said simply.

"Thank you." The words were barely more than a whisper from her lips, but Amelia could not stir herself to say more, overwhelmed with relief that _someone_ , finally, believed that she was not responsible for the deaths of so many.

"And her survival?" Roderick argued. "That _thing_ on her hand? All a coincidence, I suppose."

"Providence." Cassandra's tone left no room for argument. She met Amelia's eyes once more. "I believe you are what we needed, when we needed it."

"But I didn't close the Breach," the mage pointed out uncomfortably.

"Precisely my point," Roderick began, but was interrupted by a third voice.

Amelia blinked in surprise, startled that she hadn't noticed the hooded woman in the deep shadows of the room. Lithe and graceful, she moved with familiar grace ... and when she spoke, it was with the delicate Orlesian accent Amelia recalled from the mountain. This was Leliana, Cassandra's counterpart.

"Take care, chancellor," the redhead warned Roderick. "No one is above suspicion."

" _I_ am a suspect?" He sounded utterly horrified, but there was fear in his eyes as he looked on the Left Hand of the Divine. As well there might be; the stories told of the shadow behind the sunburst throne were chilling.

" _Someone_ killed the Divine, _someone_ caused the destruction of the Temple," Leliana pointed out. "Even if they were destroyed themselves, they may have had an accomplice. Someone who stands to gain much from this chaos."

"Why would I kill Justinia?" Roderick asked, beyond mortified by the suggestion, and to Amelia, at least, his grief sounded true. "I loved her as you did."

There was a thump as Cassandra deposited a thick tome on the table between them. "Do you know what this is, chancellor?" she asked, jabbing a gloved finger at the embossed symbol of Andraste on the cover. "A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn."

"The Chantry will never endorse this," he objected, spluttering with indignation.

"The Chantry has abandoned those who need it most in their darkest hour," Leliana told him harshly. "We have not."

"We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order," Cassandra added, her expression stern. "With or without your approval."

The chancellor held their stare for a long moment, but ultimately lacked the courage to stand up to them both. His scowl darkened as his gaze fell on Amelia. "This is madness," he declared, marching to the door. "I will have no part in it!"

"The Breach remains," Leliana said, turning her eyes to Amelia as the door slammed in the chancellor's wake. "And your mark is our only hope of closing it." She looked down at the book. "This is the Divine's directive; rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We are not ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support."

"But we have no choice," Cassandra said heavily. "We _must_ act now." Her dark eyes found Amelia's wide-eyed appraisal. "With you at our side."

"Me?" The word came out as more of a squeak than Amelia had intended. "I thought ... that is, all I can offer is this." She gestured with her marked hand.

"You offer far more than that," Leliana told her. "Popular rumor paints you as the Herald of Andraste, touched by the prophet herself as you stepped from the Fade. Your mere presence with the Inquisition will inspire confidence in many quarters."

Amelia bit her lip in concern. From a young age, she had sought to be invisible, unwilling to take center stage in a world that was inclined to condemn her purely for having been born a mage. What they were asking was terrifying. "Do I have a choice?"

"Of course," Cassandra assured her, seemingly concerned by this expressed fear. "You may leave and go where you wish."

"You should know that, though some believe you innocent, others do not," Leliana warned her in a gentle tone. "If you remain with us, we can protect you."

It wasn't much of a choice, Amelia reflected. To go her own way and face recriminations and attacks from all sides alone, no longer hunted merely by templars but also by anyone who believed her guilty of this terrible crime; or to join the reborn Inquisition as their Herald, and become the focus of inspiration and hope for the fledgling institution. But there _was_ no choice, not really. The itch in her palm denied her the luxury of a choice. It was the only thing that might be able to close the Breach, and the Inquisition was the only group prepared to try such a thing.

"If you're truly trying to restore order ..." she said thoughtfully, bracing herself to make the decision.

"Help us fix this, before it's too late," Cassandra asked, her tone almost pleading as she held out her hand.

Amelia sighed, placing her own hand into the Seeker's grasp. The solid grip of gloved fingers about her own felt like a key turning in a lock, denying her the freedom she had touched only briefly in her lifetime. Whether it was the Seeker's intention or not, she was well and truly trapped now. Herald of Andraste, the Inquisition's figurehead. If Roderick was any sort of measure, she could add pariah of the Chantry to her new list of titles.

"So be it," she said, hoping her reluctance did not show. "I'm with you."

"Excellent." Leliana nodded decisively. "If you will excuse us, Lady Trevelyan, there is much to be done."

"Oh ... of course. Is there anything that you would like me to do?" Amelia asked, unused to idleness.

"You need to rest," Cassandra told her. "These next weeks promise to be trying for us all, and you have had a difficult few days."

"Yes, Lady Seeker. Do excuse me."

Amelia left the room quietly, a little overawed by what had just happened. It occurred to her that she should write to her family to share the news of her survival ... Her _survival_. She came to an abrupt halt before the image of Andraste as an awful truth struck her. Her brothers, her sister, two uncles ... they had all been at the Conclave, she had seen them all. Uncle Wolfrum and Evelyn, her eldest sister, present as members of the Templar Order, Knights-Vigilant in defense of the Divine; Maxwell, her twin, newly appointed Knight-Captain of the same order; Kurt, her younger brother, and Uncle Markus, present only to observe the proceedings. All of them ... _gone_. Their myriad family cut to the bone, leaving only her father and Lorent, his eldest son, to continue the line in Ostwick. And now she had set herself against the Chantry. Those who remained of the Trevelyan line might well never forgive her for this, even if it proved a successful endeavor, for the ties between her family and the Chantry ran deep. As a mage, she was already an aberration to them; with this step, she might as well be an abomination in their eyes. She truly had lost everything.

How long she stood with her head bowed, she could not say, unaware of the passage of time around her as sisters and servants went about their business. Until an unwelcome voice intruded on her grief.

"There is no need for this vulgar display of devotion. There are no ignorant fools to impress within these walls, mage."

She raised her head, startled from her thoughts for the dead, to find Chancellor Roderick watching her from an alcove. The implication in his words was not lost on her. Drawing in a breath to calm herself, she set her grief to one side, unwilling to give this odious man the satisfaction of seeing her weep.

"I wonder that you should take the trouble to observe me, chancellor," she answered him, calling on the memory of her mother's political mask to give her words an edge. "For surely you do not consider yourself an ignorant fool."

"Someone must watch you," he countered. "A murderess and a heretic, who has corrupted both the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, Maker rest her soul. You are too dangerous to be allowed to wander freely."

"Do you truly believe that I killed all those people?" she asked him bluntly. "Are you aware that my own family has lost many to this tragedy? Do you truly think me so heartless, so _evil_ , that I would kill my own flesh and blood?"

"Where so many lie dead, what are a few Trevelyans in your wider scheme, mage?" the chancellor spat in her direction, shivering in the blast of icy air as the main door opened to admit others to the sanctuary of the Chantry. "You have brought chaos and ruin to all of Thedas, and you wish me to believe that _you_ grieve for the dead?"

"You will moderate your tone within Chantry walls," another voice interrupted - a voice Amelia had thought she would never hear again.

The chancellor stiffened. "You take the side of a murdering heretic, commander?" he demanded furiously. "How far the templar has fallen."

Amelia looked toward him sharply, only to find herself looking squarely at the fur-clad back of a figure she knew very well indeed. Cullen Rutherford had set himself between her and the chancellor. _Protecting_ her from the vicious barbs of an angry cleric. _How far, indeed ..._

"You will keep a civil tongue, chancellor, or you will be ejected from Haven," Cullen warned the man, anger flashing in his eyes. "This lady is under the Inquisition's protection. You are not."

He watched the implied threat sink in, his unwavering gaze forcing the chancellor into retreat for now. That man was going to be trouble, he could tell. He had not heard much, but it had been enough to know that Amelia had been interrupted in her prayers for the lost. He remembered enough about her to know that her devotions were not forced, or performed for an audience. They were hers, and she had a right to observe her faith in peace.

Feeling her gaze on his back, he turned to look into the blue eyes of his wife. "Hello, Amelia."

Those eyes sharpened at his greeting. "Hello? Is that all you can muster?" she asked, surprised to see him wince under her frown. "I thought you dead, killed at Kirkwall. And yet here you are, a member of this new Inquisition. No wonder they offered me a place so willingly. They already have a templar to _control_ me. How fortunate for everyone that you already hold my leash."

"Amelia ..." Cullen bit back his immediate response, unused to stinging words and icy stares from a woman he had only ever known as soft and compliant. She had every right to be angry with him, but there was not time for this, not here, not at this moment. "We need to talk," he told her quietly. "But I have duties that cannot be postponed at this moment."

"And duty has always been your life and soul," she said harshly, knowing she was being unfair. But there was too much between them for this meeting to be the gentle, civil affair he might have hoped for.

Cullen gritted his teeth, but swallowed the irritation at her comment. "I have taken the liberty of asking Elin to draw you a bath, in the cabin you woke up in - it is yours, for the duration of your time in Haven. May ... may I visit you there, when time permits?

She hesitated, confused by the lack of harshness in his reply to her sharp words. It was not the answer she had expected, his civility and calm throwing her off-balance. The templar she had known before this moment would have struck her for her insolence to him. Bemused by his kindness, she stumbled over her reply, groping for any words to answer with. "Thank you, I ... I will expect you."

He smiled - just a small twitch of his lips, and yet it was a smile she had not expected to see from him. What was going on here?

"Then I will call on you later," he promised her, inclining his head as he stepped back. "Rest, Amelia. You look exhausted."

With those words, he dismissed himself from her presence, continuing on to join Cassandra and Leliana, leaving her standing in the nave, brimming with confused suspicion. What was he _doing_ here?


	3. Chapter 3

Amelia was still in that state of bemused suspicion when she returned to the cabin. Her sense of displacement kept her from seeing the curious stares as she walked back through Haven, bewildered by her encounter with a man she had been so certain was dead and buried this past year, at least. Had Cullen _really_ changed so much? Or was it simply a case of protecting his reputation, being seen to behave well toward a wife he must surely have confessed to having while she slept? Despite herself, despite their history, she wanted to believe it was the former, yet common sense and learned suspicion told her the latter was far more likely.

Elin was waiting for her as she stepped in, out of the chill wind. The elven girl looked worried, wringing her hands over some deed or other. The reason for her concern was made clear as soon as she opened her mouth.

"Milady Herald, I drew you a bath, like the commander ordered, only ..." She looked toward the wooden tub set before the fire. "He ordered me to draw it cold, milady. Said you prefer to warm your own water. Was that right?"

Amelia stared at her for a long moment, her shock palpable. "Uh ... yes, Elin, that's ... that's how I prefer my bath drawn," she admitted, looking at the flames reflected on the water. Why had he remembered that? What could he possibly hope to gain by recalling such a personal preference of hers? But then ... he had always asked that she bathe before they were ... intimate. Was _that_ what he was hoping for when he visited her later?

"Milady?"

Blinking out of her thoughts, Amelia raised a smile for Elin. "I'm so sorry, Elin, my thoughts were miles away," she apologized. "Could you repeat that?"

"I found a comb, and some pins for your hair, milady," Elin said again, though now she looked mildly shocked. Evidently she was unused to humans being polite to her. "There's oils, too, for your hair and your skin. Andraste's Grace for your hair."

"Goodness, Elin, that's an expensive oil," Amelia heard herself say, more for the reassurance that she could offer something relevant than anything. "Are you sure it can be spared?"

"Lady Montilyet insisted," the elf told her earnestly. "She said you deserve something special after all you've been through."

"I don't know a Lady Mont ... wait." The name _was_ familiar. Antivan, she thought, with a vague recollection of meeting Montilyets at her Great-Aunt Lucille's balls. So _they_ were mixed up with this Inquisition too, were they? "Could you thank Lady Montilyet for me? It is a wonderfully generous gift."

"Yes, milady." Elin grinned, apparently as pleased with the gift as Amelia was. "Do you want me to help you bathe?"

"No, thank you. I am quite capable of washing myself." Amelia chuckled lightly, but she didn't miss the way the girl's face fell. Waiting on the Herald of Andraste must have been quite the honor. "I _will_ need help to dry and comb my hair," she added. "Come back in about an hour?"

"Yes, milady." The grin reappeared on Elin's face as quickly as it had flown. "I'll bring you some food, too. You've not eaten in days."

Faced with such enthusiasm, Amelia could not help but smile once more. "You're very kind," she told the girl, her tone warm. "Thank you, Elin."

She watched the girl out of the cabin, making sure the door was shut and the curtains covered before moving over to the bath. The water was, indeed, cold to the touch, warming as she murmured a spell to let heat trickle from her fingers. It was a slow process, yet one she found comfort in. But how - _why_ \- had Cullen remembered it?

_"Stop playing with the bath water," her husband of just a few hours snapped at her impatiently. "Just get in and wash yourself."_

_She looked up, wary of angering him so soon after their vows had been spoken. "I am heating the water."_

_She could tell by the way he stilled that she had somehow said the wrong thing. The handsome face that had so enthralled her in the Chantry was dark with a scowl as he turned to look at her. "You're using magic in my presence without first asking my permission?"_

_"I ... I did not ..."_

_"You are **never** to use magic in these rooms without my agreement," he growled at her. "If the bath is cold, have another drawn."_

_She swallowed, rising to her feet, her eyes downcast. "I-I asked them to draw it cold, ser," she offered, trying to explain her actions. "I -"_

_"Why?" he demanded, advancing to loom over her. She could feel the anger radiating from him, all the old warnings against crossing templars loud in her mind. "To test my limits, is it? Do you want to see how lenient I will be with your flagrant breaking of the rules?"_

_She flinched back as he reached out, the words bursting from her unbidden. "I was scalded as a child and water frightens me!"_

_His hands stilled in the act of closing on her arms, his grip tight as he glared at her. She could see him struggling with himself, the moment when he realized that he had touched her without **her** permission. When he spoke, however, it was quieter, though no less tense. "So you heat your own bath water, because ...?"_

_"It ... it gives me a sense of control," she ventured, afraid of what he might do if he didn't accept her explanation. "It ... it calms me."_

_She could hear him breathing hard as he drew his hands away from her, an apologetic look flashing over his face for his intimidating behavior. The words did not come, but she **felt** the apology in the air, watching him as he considered her - not just with her words, but her manner in that moment. It seemed to take an age, but finally he stepped away._

_"You have my permission to heat your own bath water. Please do not use your magic around me without warning me first. I do not ... react well to such surprises."_

Amelia shook her fingers free of drops, rising to undress herself. Her first private interaction with Cullen Rutherford had set the tone for their marriage, at least behind closed doors. He had often been hard and unforgiving, unwilling to allow her any autonomy unless she earned it by word or deed, and she had learned quickly not to test his temper. Yet he had always tried to treat her with respect, never forcing her into his bed, or harming her willingly. She had not needed to grow accustomed to the way he would lash out with words, only to draw them back with an apology, for over time, those harsh words had ceased to be thrown in her face. She had been a willing bride, believing in the perceived goal of their union, but she'd be lying if she said she had not come to regret her willingness. In time, she had grown to understand that he had a fear of magic that went beyond the norm, fueled by some darkness beyond the walls of the Gallows. It did not excuse his harshness, but it offered some insight.

So where was that harshness now, she wondered, folding herself into the warmed water to make the most of her time alone. In the Chantry he had been protective, assertive. He had run off the chancellor without the need for aggression or harsh words. And the way he had spoken to _her_ ... He had almost seemed pleased to see her, uncertain of his welcome. His request to visit her had been a _request_ , not an order or a statement of fact. What would have happened if she had denied him, she wondered. In three years of marriage, she had never said no - not because she was afraid to, but because he seemed to need her compliance.

But he _was_ different, wasn't he? The chancellor had called him _commander_ , not Knight-Captain; named him a fallen templar without an argument being offered. Could it be possible that Cullen Rutherford, foremost of Meredith Stannard's Knights, had left the Templar Order? She couldn't imagine such a thing. He had always been the most loyal, the most obedient to his Knight-Commander's whims, even when her orders went beyond the pale. Yet he had survived Kirkwall and moved beyond it, to the Inquisition. He had defended her against Roderick's barbed words. But _why_ , that was the question. Had he been defending his wife, his property, out of some misguided notion that only _he_ was permitted to mistreat her; or had be done it because it was the _right_ thing to do? And if it were the latter, where had he relearned right from wrong? Who had taught him?

To her own shock, Amelia recognized the pang that came with thinking of that unknown _who_. It was hurt and, Maker help her, jealousy, too. Why should she feel jealous of anyone in Cullen's life? The answer, though, was obvious, despite her reluctance to admit to it. In their three years together, she had seen more than a few shadows behind his stern outward appearance; times when she had experienced his gentleness and chivalry, times when the calmness that prevailed in their rooms had brought out a man who had been too long buried behind fear and anger. She had hoped she might be the one to encourage that man to hold sway in his life, to overcome the pain and fury that made him so unforgiving of mages in general. That someone else had touched his life the way _she_ had wanted to stung her in a manner she was not prepared to accept. Was that why he had sent her away, let her believe him dead? Was that someone here in Haven now?

She bristled at her thoughts, ducking her head beneath the water to wash the grime from her hair. What did she care if Cullen had taken someone else to his bed? He wasn't _that_ good a lover, she lied to herself. He had wronged her when he sent her away, and abandoned her in Ostwick to mourn him. He clearly cared nothing for her personally. Duty was all he had ever cared about. He was part of the Inquisition, and she was the Herald of Andraste, as ridiculous as that seemed. It was his _duty_ to protect her from harm. That could be his only motivation for his actions in the Chantry. Yet even as she considered her thoughts, she knew she was wrong; lying to herself. The man she knew was a good man, who had never harmed her if he could possibly help it. She did him a disservice by casting him in such a dark light. For as long as she had known him, he had been searching for a way to break free of his fears. Now, it seemed, he had finally discovered one.

She was dry and dressed before Elin returned, working the snarls unsuccessfully from her damp hair with the comb, listening to the sound of commotion outside.

"Oh, let me do that, milady," the elven girl asserted, quick to take the comb from her fingers. Her touch was light and gentle, and Amelia soon found herself feeling drowsy, lulled by the gentle sweep of bone teeth through her hair.

"What is going on outside, Elin?" she asked, curious despite her weariness. "They sound agitated."

"There's messengers and ravens going all over," Elin told her, her own excitement muted in favor of preserving the sense of calm peace in the cabin. "Sister Leliana sent out all the birds, and scouts, and Chancellor Roderick wasn't happy about it."

"I imagine he wasn't," Amelia murmured, though she didn't have sympathy to spare for the man.

"There's soldiers setting up a camp outside the gates, and they're building big wood things that throw rocks," the girl volunteered.

"Trebuchets," Amelia told her absently. A faint frown creased her brow. Why siege equipment? Haven was not fortified. No one who attacked this place would bring siege engines with them. Another thought, however, raised a suspicion in her mind. "Cullen Rutherford is in command, isn't he?"

"No one is, milady," Elin offered, beginning to divide the soft length of shining dark hair under her hands. "but he's in charge of the soldiers. Up or down, milady?"

_"Why are the knights always so busy, husband?" she asked one evening, two years into their marriage. He'd been in a pensive mood for a few days, unwilling to talk, but the lack of sternness about his eyes tonight gave her the courage to ask what was on her mind._

_He was staring into the fire, lost in thought, but her voice brought him back to the present moment. "What was that?"_

_"The knights under your command are always so busy," she repeated. "They always seem to be running drills, or preparing for inspection, when they are not on duty. In Ostwick, the templars had far more time to be idle. Why is that not so here in Kirkwall?"_

_His expression darkened, but she had learned to judge his moods. Her question had not angered him, but the thoughts it raised had. "Idle men have time to think and talk, to let dark thoughts take form and rule them," he said in a troubled tone. "Such men do not make good soldiers, and worse knights."_

_"I see," she answered softly. "You fear idleness breeds cruelty."_

_"In times such as these, cruelty is the least of our problems." He roused himself to stand. "Have your bath drawn. I will try not to wake you when I return."_

"Milady?"

For the second time, Amelia dragged her thoughts from the past in Elin's presence. "Oh, forgive me, Elin," she apologized. "Memories, that is all." She ran a hand over her dry hair. "Up, I think. We can't have the Herald of Andraste getting snagged on a bush, can we?"

Elin giggled at the silly image conjured up, turning her attention to separating the dark mass of her lady's hair, twisting some, braiding others, gathering them all into an intricate coil above her nape. Pleased with her work, she went about tidying the cabin, removing the bath and generally setting the place to rights before fetching the promised meal at long last. The fare was simple but well made, and to Amelia, it tasted heavenly, the first hot meal she had eaten in weeks. A life lived on the run offered no safety to build a fire for cooking, and wariness at the Conclave had dictated that she ate only the cold rations from her pack.

Her belly full, she dismissed Elin as gently as she could, pleading a need to rest, and the girl left cheerily, promising that no one would disturb her. And when she was certain she was alone ... Amelia wept.

She wept for the innocents who had suffered in this awful war, for the templars and mages who could not see past their own feelings to the pain they were inflicting on the world around them. She wept for the Divine, and all those who had died with the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the last best hope for peace in Thedas snuffed out before they had a chance to make it happen. She wept for the Chantry, immobilized by grief and politicking; for the people who needed them in this terrible time; for her family, cut to the quick not only by loss but by her own betrayal of the institution she had been raised in. But most of all, she wept for herself; guilty, pitying tears that made her heart ache. She had lost everything - her Circle, her family, her quiet anonymity. Her husband. Her place in the world had changed by pure chance, her elevation coming at the cost of so much. She did not want it, any of it. But the subtle itch of her marked palm gave her no alternative. Here she was, and here she must endure.

A gentle knock on the door roused her from a fitful sleep some time later. She stretched, wincing at the ache in her neck from sleeping in a chair. Her eyes felt gritty and dry; she was sure her face bore the marks of her storm of grief. The knock came again.

"Lady Trevelyan?"

It was Cullen. Amelia felt an old panic rise in her chest. Her husband had come, and she was not ready for him, inwardly bracing for harsh words and biting disappointment.

"One moment!" she called, hoping her voice did not sound as hoarse as it felt.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked through the door as she rushed to wash her face, blessing Elin for leaving a jug and basin. "If you would prefer, I can return at a more convenient time for you."

"Not at all," she told him, patting her face dry. Why was he just standing out there? He had every right under the law to intrude - though she had never known him to violate the implications of a closed door - and yet he had knocked and was waiting for her permission to come inside. What was she to make of that? "I will be there in a moment."

"Of course. I will wait."

Her scrabbling found a mirror, holding it up to inspect her face. Pale ... _too_ pale, she thought, and her eyes puffy and bloodshot, but she would have to do. Her appearance no longer reflected on _him_ , but on herself. He was here to talk, nothing more. She could not afford to allow anything more than that, for her own self-respect if nothing else. Husband he might be, but she was determined to show him that she was not the soft woman he had known her to be. A year on the run had hardened her, but she hoped not too much.

But there was no time to consider this further. She had to face her husband.


	4. Chapter 4

"You'll need your coat. We're going to the armory, and the wind off the ice is brisk."

Of all the things Amelia had expected Cullen to say when she opened the door, that had not been on the list. Indeed, she had expected him to come inside, not stand on the doorstep patiently as she shrugged into the sleeveless leather coat that had been provided for her. She had expected ... what? An apology? An intimate reunion? Certainly not a leisurely stroll down to the gates and beyond.

"The armory?" she queried as they turned toward the sound of the open forge.

"Harritt's finished up the cloth armor we requested for you," Cullen told her. "And I thought you might feel more secure if you had a staff. The one you were using at the Temple was snapped in three."

" _You_ would willingly arm a mage?" she asked, with reasonable skepticism. The Cullen she thought she knew would rather have cut his own arm off than give any mage the advantage of a staff.

He glanced at her with sad eyes. "I am trying not to be the man I was," he said quietly. "It is not easy for me to trust any mage. But I trust _you_." He entered the forge without giving her a chance to respond, greeted by a gruff man possessed of a bald head and an impressively Ferelden mustache. "This is Harritt, our armorer. Harritt, the Herald is here for her armor and a weapon."

"Herald, is it?" Harritt looked her over appraisingly. "They said you were a skinny piece. Here." He reached for a thickly padded tunic. "Might be big on you, but mages do a lot of moving around. Try it on."

Feeling very self-conscious under the curious eyes of the men and women working the forge, Amelia stripped out of her coat and belt, unsurprised when Cullen took them from her without comment. Harritt was right - the tunic _was_ a little big on her, but it was easy to move in, even when she replaced her coat and cinched her belt over the whole thing. She rolled her shoulders, swinging her arms, trying not to notice the impressed look on Cullen's face. His surprise was almost insulting. She _had_ been fighting for her life for the past year, after all.

"Sturdy and warm," she said eventually, offering the armorer a grateful smile. "Thank you, Master Harritt."

"Daresay you'll find something better," he said in his gruff way. "Ever find the plans and what you need for them, you can work it up here. My people will help you."

"You're very kind, Master Harritt, thank you." Amelia had never actually made her own armor before, but being offered the run of the armory to do just that sometime showed a level of trust that touched her. So few people cared to remember that mages were just people, too. "Cu - The commander said something about a staff?"

"Over there, on the rack," Harritt told her, gesturing in the appropriate direction. "Take your pick. Ain't got many, but you should find something that suits."

Cullen watched as she wandered over to the rack of staves. He could tell she'd impressed the armorer by testing the tunic thoroughly, and he had to admit that _he_ was impressed, too. Though he might have wished to keep her safe and separate from all the chaos and fighting, she had clearly learned a good deal about taking care of herself over these past months. He remembered a quiet, delicate woman whose mastery of domestic magics had made his life far more comfortable than he deserved. She was not delicate anymore; her face had grown freckled and weathered with travel, her soft curves turned mostly to hard muscle. But her calm and her grace remained, sensitive still to the people around her. He had not missed the signs of tears shed when she had opened the door, hoping his presence had not contributed to them.

Seeing her now brought back memories he had been trying to forget. Of his own behavior toward her, his coldness in the first year of their marriage that had slowly warmed as he stopped seeing her as nothing more than a mage, and let her show him once more that mages were just the same as everyone else. He recalled with deep shame the many times he had berated her for some minor transgression, alleviating his learned fear of magic with harsh words that he always regretted, always apologized for. She had held those words against him a few times, and deservedly so. There had always been consequences for his actions in their marriage, and it was with those consequences that she had taught him to relax his fears and angers and look upon the world with a more forgiving eye. And there were other memories, too - of the way he had watched her covertly as she combed her hair, or read in the evenings, letting the gentle calm of her presence soothe his troubled heart. He didn't think he had ever told her what those quiet evenings meant to him, with the horrors of the Gallows on the other side of the door. Of the taste of her skin, the smooth softness of her body under his hands, the fierce pride he had felt each time she allowed him to touch her, for he had never forced himself on her. And he remembered the tears she had shed when her mother died, how he had held her as she sobbed and ranted against a world that had taken her beloved parent from her without allowing her to say goodbye. How he had intervened with Meredith to gain her permission to return to Ostwick for the funeral, and never once admitted that it had been _his_ oath that had allowed her that freedom. Meredith had sought to cut her off from everyone but him, and he, in turn, had smuggled letters in and out of the Gallows to make certain that her world did not collapse in upon her. But he had never told her any of this. Was it any wonder she was so suspicious of his motives? His duty had always come first, and though they had learned to enjoy one another's company, he had still been a templar, and she, a mage. Trust did not come easily between them. 

He observed the way she ran her fingertips over each staff, and found his attention focusing on her left hand. She had bound the mark on her palm with leather, no doubt to keep its sheen from attracting attention. That wasn't going to be very practical, he realized. There were other rifts that needed to be dealt with, and not even she would always be able to find the time in a battle to unwrap her hand for the mark to do its work. Not only that, but the leather would begin to bite into her skin as it toughened over time. The mark gave her enough pain without adding more. He would have to see about having some modified gloves made for her.

He was brought back from his thoughts by the sensation of mana in the air, refocusing his gaze in time to see Amelia binding herself to her chosen staff. The focusing crystal glowed red - drakestone, he noted. So her affinity for fire was still in place. Despite himself, he was relieved to see it. It was good to know that some things, at least, had not changed.

"You sure about that one, Herald?" Harritt was asking in a skeptical tone. "There's another drakestone that's lighter."

"I like the weight, Master Harritt," she assured him. Cullen was sure he could hear a smile in her voice. "Sometimes it becomes necessary to actually hit people with my staff, and I would prefer it not break when that happens."

The armorer actually cracked a smile of his own at that. "Good to know." He nodded to her. "I'll keep that in mind."

Pleased with her new armor, and the reassuring burden of a staff in her hand, Amelia looked to Cullen. "Where to now, commander?"

Unconsciously, his hand rose to rub at the back of his neck. "I thought we might walk down to the lake," he suggested a little awkwardly. "It isn't far and ... we won't be alone. At least, not out of the sight of others."

He'd surprised her again. How did he know she did not trust herself to be alone with him? Or was he concerned that she might be _afraid_ to be alone with him? Both were reasonable excuses, but more insightful than she had expected. Did he know how much she had missed his presence in her life? Or did he not wish the one who had inspired this change in him to see them secluded behind a closed door? Whatever the reason, she acquiesced willingly enough, following him down to the frozen lake.

They stood in silence for a long while, shoulder to shoulder in the brisk breeze, each trying to think of what to say. It was surprisingly difficult. They had known one another as intimately as it was possible, yet their parting had been filled with angry words and tempers. Neither of them had much to be proud of from that goodbye. Perhaps that was why it was so hard to break the silence. But eventually, it was Amelia who found a way.

"So ... _commander_?"

Cullen let out a huff of silent laughter at her not-quite-question. "After the destruction at Kirkwall, I took command," he explained, knowing she needed to know this if he was to have any chance at all of at least becoming her friend. "Cassandra recruited me from there to lead the Inquisition's military arm. I think she always knew the Conclave would fail, one way or another."

"You left the Order?" she asked, needing to hear him say it aloud before she could begin to believe it.

"I did," he agreed in a low voice. "It took me too long to see how far the templars have fallen. The Gallows was a poisonous place. I couldn't stomach being a part of rebuilding it. Too many attitudes were unchanged by Meredith's madness, and the barbarity of her Rite of Annulment. When Cassandra offered me a chance to make amends, to restore order and some semblance of peace, I took it. I am ashamed of what the Order has become. I will never again call myself a templar."

To say she was shocked was an understatement. For as long as she had known him, the Templar Order had been the foundation of Cullen's being. He had been loyal and steadfast, even when his commanders were issuing orders that made his conscience prick. It was the purpose of his life, no matter how he had struggled with it, and yet he had walked away.

"Without lyrium, you'll die," she heard herself say, unable to keep the concern from her voice. It was not a death she would wish upon her worst enemy. And she knew herself well enough to know that she didn't _want_ Cullen to die. She had grieved for him once already; she didn't want to go through that pain again.

"I have not died yet," he told her, but his pained grimace told her he was suffering for his decision. "I have not taken lyrium since I left Kirkwall."

"You just _stopped?_ " she demanded, aghast at what she was hearing. "Cullen Rutherford, you are the greatest idiot in Thedas! You'll _never_ break the addiction like that. At some point, the pain will become too much, and it will break _you_."

"And what do you suggest?" he asked her, a hint of iciness in his tone that reminded her of the man he had once been, too proud to accept even a sliver of help from a mage. That pride was as much a vice as a virtue for him, and they both knew it. "That I should crawl back to the Order, begging to be leashed again?"

"Maker's breath, use your head," she swore at him, an apology for her short temper instantly in her eyes. "I'm a mage, I have access to lyrium. We'll wean you off it, slowly. For goodness' sake, Cullen, give yourself a _chance_ to defeat this successfully."

His jaw clenched as she spoke, that prickly pride of his no doubt flaring at the way she spoke to him. Then the content of her little speech broke through to him. "We?" he asked, his voice soft, almost amazed. "You would volunteer to help me with this?"

"Well, obviously _you_ can't be trusted with your own health," she informed him bluntly. "And who better than your wife?"

"I hadn't thought you would wish to keep that connection between us," he admitted, still soft in the whistling breeze.

Amelia sighed heavily, swiping a hand across her brow as she glanced away for a moment. "We took vows before the Maker," she reminded him. "No one forced me to make them and, despite your attempt to abandon me in the Free Marches, here I am. I'm not ... not saying that you are welcome in my bed, but unless you wish me to step aside for someone else, I am still your wife, and ... and content to remain so."

"I ... I had not ... that is ..." Cullen huffed out a breath, frustrated by his sudden inability to string four words together. Even after he had abandoned her, she was still willing to be his wife? It was a blessing he had not looked for, or even thought to hope for. "I did not think you would want to acknowledge our vows. That is, I am glad you were not coerced. I... I did not marry you for the right reasons, but I ... would like our marriage to remain intact. If that is your wish."

She couldn't help smiling at his fumbling, finding his lack of confidence rather endearing. It was a world away from the brash templar who had never allowed anyone to see him falter, though she had known his struggles intimately by the end. "Perhaps we could ... begin again," she heard herself suggest, emboldened by his nervous words. He had always been an honorable sort of man, despite his mistakes of the past. His wish to continue their association as husband and wife assured her that there was no one else in his life. And she had her own reasons to continue this between them. "You are all I have left now," she confessed, albeit reluctantly. "Many of my family are dead and, of those who are left ..."

"You fear they will disown you for your involvement with the Inquisition," he guessed, surprising her with his insight. Perhaps he had learned more about her during their years at Kirkwall than she had thought. "Will you write to them?"

"Would I be allowed?" she countered curiously. "I think Father might take it better if he hears it from me. I don't think he will react ... well ... to my new title."

"Ah, yes," he mused, glancing down at her. "Herald of Andraste. It's quite a title, isn't it? How are you finding that?"

"It's a little ... unnerving," she conceded, staring out across the ice. She could almost forget the Breach was behind her, if she looked only to the east. "I don't know what to believe."

"I can imagine," Cullen agreed, casting a curious look at her thoughtful profile. "What _do_ you believe?"

She hesitated, uncertain if she was brave enough to share her thoughts on this. But he was the only person here that she _knew_ ; the only person who stood some chance of understanding her confusion. "I ... believe in the Maker," she said in a quiet tone. "I believe in Andraste. But was I delivered by Andraste's hand? Was she the woman in the fade? I don't know. I would like to believe that it was, and yet it seems the very height of arrogance to think that I am somehow her Chosen. I did not choose the title they've given me, and yet I am obliged to wear it. What should I do?"

"It is a difficult position you find yourself in," he answered, giving her the benefit of his opinion in the hope that it might help in some small way. "I have no doubt that the Maker brought you to us in our darkest hour. But the woman in the Fade ... she is a confusion. You and I know the Fade, though you know it far better. She may, indeed, be Andraste; or she may be a spirit who chose to help you when you needed it most. It may not even matter. The people need a focus, someone to look to for inspiration in this troubled time. _They_ have chosen you, even if Andraste did not. They need you to _be_ her Herald."

"I don't know if I can do it," she confessed. "I don't like to be looked at, talked about. I have spent a lifetime being invisible. How can I possibly be what they need me to be?"

"Amelia ..." He turned then, taking her hand into his own. His brown eyes were warm as she met his gaze. "You are one of the strongest people I have ever known. I believe you can be all these people hope for, and more." He stepped closer, needing her to see how sincere he was, to believe that he meant what he said. "I was a righteous ass when we met, and I know you have little reason to trust the Inquisition, or my role in it. But you were _never_ invisible to me."

She stared up at him, bemused and astounded by his faith in her. She had never noticed him taking the trouble to know her so very well, and yet _he_ believed she could do this, when _she_ did not. "How can you be so certain?"

He smiled, the expression made a little lopsided by the scar on his lip. She liked it; it gave him a roguish look that only enhanced his beauty. "I have faith."

She held his gaze a moment longer before a soft laugh escaped her lips. "It all comes back to faith."

"And you won't be alone," Cullen added, releasing her hand before she could grow uncomfortable with his touch. "Cassandra has already pledged herself to stay at your side, and I believe both Varric and Solas have expressed a wish to do the same. There will be others, too."

"How can you possibly know that?" she asked with a frown.

"I've seen it before," he said simply. "Twice, in fact. The Hero of Ferelden's inner circle was terrifyingly diverse, and Hawke, too, gathered an interesting array of companions. Like them, the Inquisition is a legend in the making."

"And neither of their stories ended well," Amelia pointed out in frustration. "The Hero died, and Hawke was hounded out of Kirkwall by the Chantry. They threatened her with an Exalted March!"

"I will not let you come to harm," he promised her fervently. "None of us will. You'll buck the trend and have a happy ending, Amelia. You deserve one."

"Why do you have so much faith in me?"

Cullen paused, considering her for a long time. "I don't know," he said finally, refusing to lie to her any more. "But I do. I will never abandon you again, Amelia."

"You had better not," she warned him mildly. "Or I'll give you another scar to remember me by."

He actually chuckled at that, raising a hand reflexively to touch the mark she had left on his lip at their parting in Kirkwall. "Far be it from me to tempt the ire of the Herald of Andraste," he teased her, glancing back at Haven as astonishment covered her face. Maker's breath, the man had managed to preserve his sense of humor through that mess at the Gallows. "May I escort you back to your cabin?"

"If you wish." As they turned to retrace their steps, she seemed thoughtful, finally breaking the comfortable silence with, "Isn't it _your_ cabin, too?"

"No, I sleep with the soldiers, in the tents," he told her solemnly. "If we are to begin again, I will not enter your cabin without invitation. You have a right to your privacy - a right I have never before respected. I wish to be a better husband, Amelia. With your permission, I should like to begin with friendship."

"You know, you still haven't apologized," she said, very nearly teasing him herself as they stopped by the cabin door.

"That is true," he agreed, his lips twitching in a teasing smile. "I've accepted responsibility. Don't push your luck."

To his amazement, she laughed, shaking her head with a wide smile as she opened the door. "Good night, Commander Rutherford."

He bowed to her, that smile playing about his lips. "Good night, Lady Trevelyan."

Waiting until her door was firmly shut, Cullen turned to retrace his steps back to the training ground and his own tent, offering a short nod to his men as he went, unaware that smile had not yet left his face. That had gone better than expected, and far better than he deserved. Perhaps there was reason to hope for a happy ending to Varric Tethras' _Gallows Bride_ , after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, just to warn you, but the next one's a doozy!

_Missives sent by raven back and forth between Haven and the Hinterlands_

 

Redcliffe crossroads made safe. Mother Giselle en route to Haven. Delay in approaching Master Dennet due to Herald's insistence and subsequent injury. Expect to move on in two days.

\- Seeker C. Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine

 

* * *

 

 

_Nightingale,_

_We picked up a scout who can talk a mage out of her pants in a war zone. She's wasted out here. Also, how many rifts did you say we'd find? Someone on your team needs to learn how to count. Bianca's running out of bolts._

_\- Varric_

 

* * *

 

 

Herald,

Please elaborate on the reason for this delay, and your injuries.

\- C. Rutherford (Commander)

 

* * *

 

 

_C. Rutherford (Commander),_

_If you believe for one moment that I am going to waltz through a refugee camp without stopping to help, then you don't know me at all. We were best equipped to provide what they needed, namely food and the location of various caches hidden by the mages, not to mention clearing out encampments of both mages and templars in the immediate vicinity. Speaking of whom, the templars are not exactly covering themselves in glory out here. At least the mages are only attacking **them** , and not the general populace as well._

_As for my injuries, it is nothing to concern yourself with. A ram knocked me down a rather steep escarpment trying to get away from Cassandra in close quarters, and she is making a fuss out of nothing. I imagine you'd be more upset if I had engaged the dragon to the east of Redcliffe proper. She's rather magnificent._

_A Lord Berand will be reporting to you in a couple of weeks, along with Corporal Vale's Irregulars. Play nicely._

_\- A. Trevelyan (Herald)_

 

* * *

 

 

Amelia,

No dragon baiting. I mean it. A broken leg once healed may seem trivial to you, but I do not like to think of you coming to harm.

While the mages around Redcliffe seem innocent to you, that does not mean they _all_ are. Atrocities are being committed on both sides. Don't let your natural inclinations blind you to the realities.

\- Cullen

 

* * *

 

 

_Cullen,_

_How many mages have trapped templars in a cabin and set fire to it? How many have set upon a lone unarmed man in numbers, just because he looked like he **might** be carrying a weapon, and then robbed his corpse? **Your** natural inclinations are showing._

_Don't forget to take your philter. I don't like the idea of_ ****_**you** coming to harm, either._ _  
_

_\- Amelia_

 

* * *

 

 

Amelia,

How _can_ I forget when you have Adan delivering the dose to me at the crack of dawn every day? And don't think you've won this debate. The conversation is not done.

\- Cullen

 

* * *

 

 

_Commander,_

_Stop discussing politics with your wife. I can only heal so much on any given day._

_\- Solas_

 

* * *

 

 

Redcliffe west and east secured. Send teams to build watchtowers in noted positions - Dennet refusing to move until towers built. Grand Forest Villa cleared. Redcliffe village secured against entry by Inquisition. Proceeding to Val Royeaux via northern pass.

\- Seeker C. Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to a timely comment, I have gone back and edited through the past chapters. Cullen has, hopefully, been improved - less of an abusive bastard, more of a troubled man. I hope.

"I still maintain we should approach the templars -"

"We need more power, not suppression -"

"If you could stop bickering and come to a decision, then we can move on from this!"

Leliana and Cullen broke off their argument, and turned to look at Amelia over the war table, both surprised by her outburst. She glared at both of them, still more than a little rattled by her experience in Val Royeaux. If the decision were up to her, that little display by Lord Seeker Lucius would have made her mind up for her. But she wasn't a part of _making_ the decisions. She was the face of the Inquisition, nothing more, and this constant bickering was beginning to grate on her nerves.

"We are deadlocked on this issue," Josephine admitted, looking curiously to the other three leaders of the Inquisition. "Perhaps a decisive voice is needed, and it does not belong to any of us."

"It is the Herald who will have to make the approach," Cassandra pointed out, looking to Amelia. "If the decision were yours to make, Amelia, who would _you_ approach?"

"For me, it is an easy decision," Amelia answered simply. "The mages."

Cullen threw up his hands, frustrated by the insistence of the women around him in inviting what he saw as more danger to their safe Haven. "Because you are a mage yourself!"

"Because I am a rational human being, you bigoted oaf!" she shot back across the table, tired of his attitude to this choice before them. He was afraid, and too proud to admit it, and unfortunately he was expressing it as an irrational, stubborn aversion to even considering the mages as possible allies. 

"How is it rational to expose dozens, _hundreds_ , of mages to the danger of possession so close to the Breach, you silly little girl?" he demanded, both of them thankfully unaware of the amusement their argument was eliciting in their companions. He let out a huff of breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, I should not have said that," he apologized to her. "I have no excuse."

Amelia's expression hardened briefly, but she shook her head with a sigh. "I apologize, as well," she said softly. "We are looking at this from two sides of the argument, and we each have our own reasons for our partiality. Please, continue."

He frowned, concerned by the way she had backed down in the face of his anger. He knew he was being as irrational as he had accused her of being, but his past experiences were still too raw to simply stand back and allow them to forge ahead without being made aware bluntly of the dangers. "Bringing more mages here would mean abominations and blood magic throughout Inquisition ranks," he insisted firmly.

"So I'm an abomination, am I?" she said, her voice almost sad. "Or perhaps I am a maleficar. I did, after all, fall directly from the Fade. I may even be a demon. Do you understand why this line of debate is so insulting? Cullen, your paranoia is ruling your sense."

"My _caution_ is learned and warranted," Cullen growled at her, hurt that she would choose to bring that up in front of their companions. He had confided in her of his concern that his fears were sometimes overwhelming shortly before he had sent her back to Ostwick for her own safety. "Or do you not remember conditions in the Gallows?"

"This is _not_ Kirkwall!" Amelia reminded him, as forcefully as she could. She was not a woman given to heated debate at the best of times, and this was certainly  _not_ the best of times. "This is not a Circle. If all mages were so evilly inclined as you believe, the world would have been awash with demons long before any of this ever happened!"

"And if all templars were as bloodthirsty as _you_ believe, half the world would be dead by their swords by now," he countered stubbornly. He believed in the principles behind the Templar Order, but he also knew she was right. While atrocities had been committed on either side, the war had not truly begun until the templars had abandoned the Chantry to openly attack the mages. He was ashamed of what the Order had become, and had hoped that the Inquisition might be able to save them from themselves. 

"I have never believed _all_ templars are bloodthirsty, and some of them _are_ slaughtering innocents at random," she pointed out, frowning at him.

"We have established that there are false generalizations on both sides," Josephine interjected smoothly. Entertaining though it was to watch the Herald and the commander argue, there _had_ been a point before the conversation escalated. "Lady Trevelyan, there must be compelling reasons as to why you would choose to approach the mages. Could you, perhaps, explain them to us?"

Tearing her irritated glare from Cullen's flushed face, Amelia made a visible effort to calm down before she answered. "Part of it, I admit, is due to my own status as a mage," she began, only to be interrupted immediately.

"Of course it is," Cullen scoffed, but quite suddenly fell silent as Amelia's gaze turned frosty. He knew _that_ look; he'd crossed a line, and he knew exactly which one it was. Their friendship here was still in tentative stages. He instantly regretted speaking without thinking. A debate was fine; deliberate rudeness was not something that sat well with him, especially when _he_ was the one who had performed it.

She held that stare until he looked away, his ears turning pink as he did so. "If you are quite finished attempting to silence me, _husband_ ..." The words were as icy as her eyes, the silence deeply uncomfortable until she went on.

"As I was saying, part of it _is_ because I am a mage," she told Josephine. "But my mind was made up by that little display in Val Royeaux. Bad enough that the Chantry thought to lure us into a trap and order the templars to set on us, but to see a templar strike a Revered Mother with his armored fist, with no provocation at all, and no punishment from his superiors ... I would not willingly offer _any_ alliance to a group that condones such behavior. We went to Val Royeaux for a peaceful discussion. Instead, I was personally accused and denounced by the Chantry's spokesperson, and witness to an unjustifiable attack on the Chantry by the templars." Her eyes turned back to Cullen, pleading for him to see sense. "The only person will to speak to us was Grand Enchanted Fiona, and she wasn't even supposed to be there."

Cullen's jaw clenched. Every word she said was true. He wished he had been there - not to see the disgraceful behavior, but to appeal to the templars as one of their brothers. Amelia was right to be wary of their new leader, and of their behavior, and he had not been fair in forcing his personal views into this conversation. But he kept his peace, looking toward Cassandra as she spoke.

"That is very true," the Seeker agreed in a troubled tone. "I cannot imagine what has got into the Lord Seeker. He was so very cold."

"I take it that is unusual for him?" Leliana asked, one brow raised curiously.

"Not exactly," Cassandra admitted reluctantly. "But to shun us completely ... that is not the man I know."

"Should I have my agents investigate Therinfal Redoubt?" the spymaster suggested. "That is where the Order is gathering, though there is little information as to why."

"It is a fortress," Cassandra shurgged. "Almost as impregnable as Redcliffe Castle. I cannot pretend to guess his reasons, but Lucius seems to believe the templars are important. He was very clear about this being _their_ hour."

"That concerns me," Cullen offered, his voice softer now he had allowed himself a moment to calm and step back from the old fear spurring on his temper. "The templars are the greatest military force in Thedas. If the Lord Seeker has been corrupted somehow, they will be vulnerable to abuse by their superiors. Kirkwall repeated, but on a massive scale."

"That _is_ a concern," Leliana agreed. "But our goal here is to close the Breach. Whomever we approach, we will make an enemy of the other."

"And templars would be, I fear, less problematic to fight, if it should come to that," Cassandra said, her tone pensive.

Amelia kept her mouth shut, watching Cullen as he considered what was being said. She understood his viewpoint, of course she did. Despite his disavowal of the Order, he still felt some loyalty toward it. Indeed, she shared his concern for the honorable members of the Order, who were in no position to disobey their leaders. Lyrium was their leash; just because _he_ was slowly breaking free from it did not mean that others would be so willing to try. In his heart, they were still his brothers and sisters, a family he had embraced beyond the bonds of blood. She felt herself relax at his next words, glad to hear the anger had been set aside. It worried her when he let that paranoia take hold.

"You are right," he told Cassandra, painful reluctance clear in his voice. "An army of mages is a greater threat than an army of templars."

"This invitation to Redcliffe is merely to talk," Josephine added diplomatically. "Any negotiation can be put off until we know what the situation truly is."

"Then the Herald should go to Redcliffe to discern what the mages are doing there," Leliana said decisively, "and my agents will work on infiltrating the Redoubt. Agreed?"

There was a general ripple of agreement from everyone in the room. Leliana left, no doubt to send out her orders; Josephine was close behind her. Not wanting to be left alone in the war room with her husband after their harsh words, Amelia was hard on their heels, but to no avail. Cullen caught up to her outside the Chantry.

"Amelia, you shouldn't -" he began, breaking off as she shook his hand from her arm.

"Cullen ... I don't think we should talk to each other right now," she told him as gently as she could. "We both have our own reasons for believing as we do, and we both have tempers that do not mesh well, especially when we are in opposition. Another time, perhaps. I'll make sure Adan has your doses for during my absence."

His jaw set in an sharp line, his frown heavy. She was right, once again. "Don't presume any decisions for the Inquisition in Redcliffe," he warned her quietly. "Our choice is not yet made."

"Don't worry," she assured him, her voice just as quiet. "I'm not a leader, I know that. I'll leave the decision to you, and the others. But I need to know what's happening there, Cullen, for my own peace of mind. Perhaps Leliana's agents will be able to set _your_ mind at rest with news from the Redoubt. But we should not talk about this any more."

He sighed softly, letting her walk away as he lingered by the great doors. So much for beginning again. Between them, they had just reduced themselves to templar and mage once again. He hated that distinction, the way it opened the divide between them. He wanted to be Cullen and Amelia once again, as they had been in the quiet evenings before Kirkwall had grown too dangerous to risk her continued presence there. And for that to happen, he would have to master his fear. As for Amelia, she escaped with no little remorse at how harsh she had been with him, shaking her head at the memory of the way they had spoken in the war room. A part of her wanted him to follow, to apologize once again so that she could apologize herself, but she knew neither one of them was in the right frame of mind for such an apology to mean anything. If the mages were in reasonable circumstances, she would look again at the possibility of approaching the templars. That was the most she would allow herself to consider at this moment. 

She stamped her feet as she walked, trying to work some heat back into her toes as she reached the wide steps leading down to her cabin, pulled up short by a gravelly voice behind her.

"Well, that looked chilly. Who yanked Curly's chain?"

Twisting on her heel, she met Varric's nonchalant gaze, smiling ruefully at the dwarf's question. "That would be me," she admitted, moving to join him by his fire. "We had a ... difference of opinion over mages and templars."

"Looked like more than that to me, Duchess," he chuckled, gesturing for her to sit with him. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Looking for more fodder for your sequel?" she countered mildly.

"Who said I was writing a sequel?" Varric managed to look innocent under her level gaze.

"The parchment on your knee does," she pointed out, but with a resigned smile. It was hard to be offended by Varric's scribbles. "It's not like I don't know that I'm _The Gallows Bride._ I _did_ read it, Varric."

"Can you really blame me for wanting to continue the story now it's playing out in front of me?" he chuckled in his charming way. "This time, I might even get some of it accurate."

"You got some parts right," she conceded lightly. "Not the glorious romance and gory death, of course, but the first chapters were fairly accurate for a while."

"Ouch." Varric winced in sympathy. If those chapters were close to the truth, her marriage to Cullen had not begun well at all. "At least tell me it's improved now."

"It did before I left Kirkwall," she assured him. "I had thought we were making some progress here, but ... Old habits die hard, it seems."

"On his side, or yours?" her dwarven friend asked in a gentle tone. His quill wasn't moving on the page, so she knew it was the query of a friend, not the nosiness of an author.

"His, perhaps," she murmured, staring into the flames. It wasn't her place to tell Cullen's secrets, and she was acutely aware that she had all but announced one of his greatest shames in front of Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra. "But my reactions aren't exactly conducive to a healthy discussion. I can't seem to stop throwing the past in his face. I suppose I'm angrier than I thought I was."

"I don't see how you couldn't be," he mused. "Cullen was a nughead back then. And you _were_ forced into marrying him -"

"No one forced me, Varric," she corrected him, shaking her head. She didn't like this recurring theme, that everyone seemed to think she'd had no say in her marriage, and that it had been terrible. "I volunteered, if you can believe that."

Varric's expression was priceless. "Wait ... what? Now I need details. Hawke was certain you were blackmailed into it."

It was Amelia's turn to show her confusion. "Why would Hawke possibly ...? Oh, _Bethany_ , of course." She sighed, letting out a soft laugh. Bethany Hawke had been her first friend in the Gallows; of _course_ the Champion got all her Circle gossip from her sister. She looked sideways at Varric. "You really want the truth? It paints me as a naive idiot."

"Better than a beaten bride," he commented, and she had to concede that point.

"True," she agreed, rolling her eyes. "All right, you want the details? The Ostwick Circle was as dull as paint. When our First Enchanter was contacted by Knight-Commander Meredith, proposing an alliance between one of his mages and her Knight-Captain, he approached me because of my family name. I thought it was an admirable idea, a way of making peace in the Gallows between mages and templars. And I let myself become infatuated with the miniature portrait he showed me. Cullen's always been handsome, and I'd read a lot of silly novels about unlikely romances. My parents had no objections; it got me out of Ostwick. I thought I would be in the vanguard of a new age of peace, that he would become as infatuated with me as I was with him, and we would show the world that mages and templars could live in harmony. I was an idiot."

"I don't think so. Naive, maybe. Innocent, definitely." He caught her sharp glance, answering it with a roguish smile. "You might never have seen it, Duchess, but Curly changed after you got married. Started seeing the other side of things; working _with_ Hawke, rather than denouncing her and everything she did. I'd say you're probably the reason he finally stood up to Meredith. I know you weren't in Kirkwall then, but the man he was before you would never have challenged her the way he did, or protected what few mages were left afterward. Hawke thought maybe you were forcing him to see things differently by being loud and outspoken, but I think I know better. Now I _know_ you, I think just being yourself was enough to remind him of the man he wanted to be."

She smiled, the expression wry on her freckled face. Gossip about her marriage had never really occurred to her before she'd read _The Gallows Bride_ , and its fanciful romanticism had made her laugh. She and Cullen might not have fallen in love, but they had created a soft, safe place for them both to retreat to that had only felt complete when they were both in attendance. "That's a very romantic notion, Varric," she said softly. "So why did he send me away, let me think he was dead?"

"Oh, I don't know," the dwarf chuckled, waving a hand. "You'd have to ask him."

"That's not happening anytime soon," she laughed, shaking her head as she sobered abruptly. "Right now, we're neither of us in the right place to hold an adult discussion. I resorted to name-calling in there, and he answered me in kind."

"I don't think you'll have any trouble on that score, Duchess," he assured her, patting her hand lightly. "Two weeks without you, and he'll be falling over himself to talk to you again. Speaking of which, where to next?"

"Back to Redcliffe," she told him. "We should at least see what the Grand Enchanter has to say, and we can pick up Leliana's Grey Warden while we're at it."

"Fun times," he sighed theatrically.

She laughed again, nudging his shoulder playfully. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."

"Just don't go cliff-diving with any more rams," he suggested in amusement. "I don't think Cassandra's nerves can take it."

"That was _her_ fault," Amelia protested, giggling at his turn of phrase.

" _I_ know that, and _you_ know that." Varric winked at her. "Even Chuckles knows it. But she'll _never_ admit to it."

"No, I suppose she wouldn't," she agreed, her smile softening as she looked at her friend. "Thank you, Varric. I needed to talk that through."

"I'm not a storyteller for nothing," he said immodestly, jerking his head toward the steps. "I think your little friend's trying to get your attention."

She followed his gaze, smiling at the sight of Elin's anxious face. "I think you're right," she chuckled, rising to her feet. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Dream sweet for me, Duchess."

Feeling much better in herself, Amelia joined Elin, walking with her to the cabin. The young elf had become her go-to person whenever she was in Haven, taking her self-appointed duties very seriously indeed. If she was honest, she was glad of Elin's fussing over her. It felt _good_ to be looked after with such care. She could only hope that Elin knew how deeply her efforts were appreciated.

"Madame de Fer sent some embrium petals, milady," she was saying as they entered the cabin. "Said to sprinkle them on the fire to help you sleep. And that Sera put a dead mouse in your bed, but I fetched it out again."

Amelia let out a short laugh, letting Elin usher her into the chair. "I think we're going to have to get used to Red Jenny's pranks," she told the girl, relaxing as familiarly clever fingers began to remove the pins from her hair. "I'm a noble, after all; her natural prey. It might take her a while to stop seeing me as the enemy."

"It's not very respectful, milady," Elin pointed out, clearly disapproving of Sera already.

"Be glad it was only a mouse, Elin," Amelia chuckled again. "She enjoys stealing breeches as well. A bare-assed Herald of Andraste would be right up her street."

"I won't let her do that to you, milady," the elf promised fervently. "If she ever does, I'll steal _her_ breeches and burn them."

"Good for you, Elin," she praised her young helper fondly. "And if she ever pranks _you_ , just let me know. I'm sure I could come up with a way to even the score."

Elin giggled, drawing the comb through her mistress' long, dark hair. The Herald of Andraste might be on her way out into the world again at sun up, but for tonight, Amelia could relax in her own slice of privacy, leaving her troubles at the door. Here, there was peace and calm, and after the headaches of the day, that was very welcome indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, my dears, "Ame" is pronounced "Ammy". And I'll warn you now ... I made myself cry writing this one.

Herald,

There is no decision to make. Tevinter must be stopped. Go to the castle; my agents will enter through a secret passage to support you. Your contact, Dorian Pavus, will assist with their entry. Stall until his arrival.

\- Leliana

 

_It's a trap. Be safe. - Cullen_

 

* * *

 

The second guard dropped into the water next to his sizzling companion, both dead as doornails. At which point, Amelia turned and abruptly threw up into a convenient pot. Dorian caught her staff before it could disappear beneath the water all around them, laying a gentle hand on her back as her stomach emptied itself without her consent.

"Easy now," he murmured as she straightened up, wiping her mouth self-consciously with her sleeve. "All better?"

She swallowed, grimacing at the taste in her mouth. "Better," she nodded, looking around them in dismay. "I wouldn't say _all_ , though. Where are we?"

It was clearly a dungeon, though it had just as clearly fallen heavily into disrepair. Six inches of stagnant, fetid water was soaking into her boots, the stone floor beneath feeling rough and littered with debris. But it was the sickly red glow that caught her attention. A huge growth of red lyrium jutted out from the wall, humming unpleasantly as it cast its nauseating light over the enclosed space.

What had happened? Leliana's plan had worked perfectly. Amelia had taken Cassandra and Varric into Redcliffe Castle to meet with Magister Gereon Alexius, and had managed to hold his attention long enough not only for Dorian to arrive and enter the conversation, but also for Leliana's agents to neutralize the Venatori reinforcements. And then ... she remembered swirling green light, Dorian rushing to intercept something, and the hideous sensation of being dragged into a rift, only to land here and immediately have to fight for her life. But where was _here?_

She took her staff back, turning her attention to Dorian. The Tevinter mage was crouching by the bodies, searching for a key to the door and muttering to himself.

"Displacement, interesting," he mused, rising with the key in his hand. "It's probably not what Alexius intended. The rift must have moved us ... to what? Hmm ... the closest confluence of arcane energy."

"I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about," she informed him, trying not to lose her temper. She didn't deal well with surprises. "The last thing I remember, we were in the castle hall."

"Let's see, if we're still in the castle, _it_ ... isn't."

"What?" Amelia stared at him. He was making less and less sense as far as she was concerned. "That was not an ordinary rift, Dorian. Trust me, _ordinary_ rifts do not make me throw up."

"And you have experienced plenty of them," he said placatingly. "Oh, of _course_. It's not simply where, it's _when_. Alexius used the amulet as a focus. I helped him to make it. It moved us through time."

"I beg your pardon?" He may have been the expert here, but that didn't mean she was going to take this calmly. "Did we go back in time, or forward? And how far? Dorian, are we paradoxical?"

"Those are excellent questions," he told her, sounding far too calm for her liking. He almost sounded as though he was _enjoying_ this. "We'll have to find out, won't we? Let's look around, see where the rift took us. Then we can figure out how to get back." He paused, the first hint of a frown touching his debonair face. " _If_ we can."

" _If_ we ..." No, she didn't want to think about that. Shaking her head at the implication, she forced her mind away from that thought. "What was Alexius trying to do?"

"I _believe_ his original plan was to remove you from time completely," he said in a conversational tone, moving to unlock the door from the dungeon they found themselves in. "If that had happened, you would never have been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or mangled his Elder One's plan. I think your surprise in the castle hall made him reckless. He tossed us into the rift before he was ready. I countered it, the magic went wild, and here we are. Makes sense." He swung the door open, glancing back at her. "Coming? ... Amelia?"

She was staring into the middle distance, silently screaming in the back of her mind. Where did she even begin? "This is completely insane," she whispered.

Dorian's eyes narrowed in concern as he considered the state of her. An already burdened young lady, upon whom the fate of the world was resting, and now she was nowhere near where or when she needed to be in order to save said world. He let the door swing shut once more, stepping back toward her as he spoke again, his voice deliberately light. "I don't even want to think about what this will do to the fabric of the world. We didn't travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it in the privy."

"Travel through time," she repeated, a wildness to her expression that declared panic was not far behind. "But what about home? All those people counting on us, on _me_ , and I'm not there, I can't close the Breach from another place and time and if we don't close the Breach, it's going to take over the world and he'll _die_ , Dorian, everyone will die!"

He reached out to the babbling, panicking mage before him, pulling her into a tight embrace. "It's all right, you're all right," he crooned gently into her ear as she hyperventilated against his chest. "Breathe in deeply ... and hold it ... and let it out _slowly_. And again. Once more ..."

She did as he told her, each deep breath coming more easily than the last until the crushing weight of panic and failure eased from her chest. Shaking with the after-effects of such an attack, she let out an embarrassed breath of laughter. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "You must think I'm an idiot."

"Not at all, my dear," Dorian assured her, still in that gentle tone. "It isn't every day you find yourself at the mercy of unknown magic. But don't worry. I'm here. I'll protect you. We'll be home in no time, and whoever _he_ is, he's not going to die." He held her until he felt her relax, relieved that she hadn't lost herself to the shock. "There, now. Feeling better?"

Amelia nodded as she drew back, taking one last deep breath to calm herself. "Thank you," she murmured gratefully, both of them embarrassed in the aftermath of her little breakdown. "Uh ... there were others in the hall. Could they have been drawn through the rift?"

Dorian shook his head, as eager as she was to move past this. "I doubt it was large enough to bring the whole room through," he told her, leading the way out through the door. "Alexius wouldn't risk catching himself or Felix in it. They're probably still where and when we left them. In some sense, anyway."

"Very reassuring," she drawled, trying doors as they passed them. Red lyrium was everywhere, growing in thick clusters that filled the cells they passed. "We need to go up. Dungeons tend to be at the bottom of places, right?"

"I've never been in one myself, but logic would dictate that you are correct," he agreed, pushing open the next door. "Oh, and I've found some stairs." He considered the ascent. "I suppose I should be gallant and offer to go up first, but _you_ are the hero, my dear."

Amelia rolled her eyes, feeling herself smile as his light demeanor washed over her. "You're worse than Sera, _darling_ ," she chuckled, pushing past to begin up the stairs.

"Who, dare I ask, is Sera?" He sounded genuinely curious, leaving her to wonder how he had missed the Red Jenny during his trip to Haven.

"Oh, don't worry - you'll get on like a house on fire," she predicted with a faint smirk. Screaming, widespread panic, mild injury ... Yes, that sounded about right. "Alexius mentioned an Elder One in the hall. Do you know who he was talking about?"

"Leader of the Venatori, I suspect," Dorian scoffed as they gained the next level. "Some magister aspiring to godhood. It's the same old tune." His voice became a dreadful falsetto. _"Let's play with magic we don't understand, it will make us incredibly powerful."_ He snorted derisively, gesturing to the door ahead of them as his voice returned to normal. "Evidently doesn't matter if you rip apart the fabric of time in the process."

"Then we'd better get back before this aspiring god lets the power go to his head," she said firmly.

"I have some thoughts on that," he assured her. "They're lovely thoughts, like little jewels."

She chuckled softly, pausing halfway up the next staircase. Her head cocked, her ears straining in the deafening silence until she heard again what had pulled her up short. Boots on stone. "Company," she breathed to Dorian. "How do those little jewels of yours feel about a quick fight?"

His grin was malicious in the red glow from the lyrium. "Positively sparkling, darling."

It _was_ a quick fight, thankfully. Six against two should have been a struggle, but the two mages swiftly realized that they made a formidable team. Safe behind Dorian's instinctive barrier, Amelia opened with lightning, picking off the armored zealots with fireballs as her companion pinned down the spellbinders with ice mines and well-timed lightning of his own. Better yet, neither one of them had to move away from the doorway, a convenient escape route at their backs in case they needed it. As it turned out, they didn't.

The fight over, they discovered that their way forward and up was barred by a lack of bridge over a deep drop that neither of them particularly wanted to chance jumping.

"All right," Dorian said briskly. "That leaves us a choice between left and right."

Amelia flexed her marked hand thoughtfully. "Left would appear to be my lucky direction right now," she conceded, and with no better reason to make a choice, left was the way they went.

It took them down once again, to more cells choked with red lyrium crystals. Dorian shuddered at the sight of them. "You know, I'm beginning to have awful suspicions about the origin of this stuff," he mused, his brows knitted in deep disapproval.

Amelia could guess where his thoughts had gone. "I'm trying not to think about it." But neither of them were left merely suspicious for long.

A low moan caught their attention, drawing the two mages to investigate one of those cells close to. The red crystals were thick beyond the bars, as in all the cells, but far worse was the elf trapped within the cluster. All those nasty suspicions were confirmed in an instant - the tainted lyrium was growing out of _her_ , not the walls of the dungeon. All those cells clogged with the red stuff had once held living, breathing prisoners. And she was _still_ living, her moans of pain horrifying to witness. Then she turned her head, and Amelia let out a shocked gasp.

"Fiona?"

"Maker's breath, what's been done to you?" Dorian demanded weakly, not truly wanting an answer.

The former Grand Enchanter focused bleary eyes on the faces at the bars to her cell, releasing a cry that might almost have been relief as she recognized the Herald of Andraste. "You're alive," she gasped, hissing in pain as she twisted to see them better. "How? I ... I saw you disappear ... into the rift."

"Yes, we're alive," Amelia assured her, reaching for the bars.

"No!" Fiona's harsh cry made her snatch her hand back in alarm. "Don't ... don't touch it. The longer you're near it, eventually you become this. Then ... then they mine your corpse for more."

"Isn't there _anything_ I can do to help you?" Amelia asked, aghast at what this proud woman had somehow become.

"It is enough to know that ... you live," the elven enchanter told her with a weak smile.

"Can you tell us the date?" Dorian interjected urgently, glancing at Amelia in concern. "It's very important."

Speaking seemed to be a struggle for Fiona, but she persisted, forcing the words from her mouth. "Harvestmere," she rasped painfully. "9:42 Dragon."

"9: _42?_ " Even Dorian, the expert, was shocked. "Then we've missed an entire year!"

"And too much has happened in that year," Amelia said angrily. "Fiona, is this Redcliffe Castle?" The trapped elf nodded in answer. "Then Alexius must still be here somewhere. He's your confluence of arcane energy, Dorian. We have to get out of here, go back in time."

"Please," Fiona burst out, each word a victory against the red lyrium eating her alive. "Stop this from happening. Alexius serves the Elder One ... more powerful than the Maker. No one ... challenges him and lives."

"No one is more powerful than the Maker," Amelia objected, cut off as Dorian spoke.

"Our only hope is to find the amulet that Alexius used to send us here," he told her firmly. "If it still exists, I can use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot we left. Maybe."

"I'm hearing a lot of ifs and maybes here, Dorian," Amelia pointed out.

He shrugged lightly. "It might also turn us into paste."

She frowned back at him. "I prefer the other option."

"You must try," Fiona rasped. "Your companions ... Cassandra and Varric. They are here. Your spymaster, Leliana, too. Find them. Quickly, before the Elder One learns you are here ..."

"Fiona?" Amelia lurched toward the cell as the Grand Enchanter sagged, her strength gone. Dorian caught her arm before she could touch the bars.

"There's nothing we can do, Amelia, not here and now," he told her, his tone brooking no resistance. "Come on. We should find your friends."

They found Cassandra first, not far from where Fiona languished, guided by the sound of prayer echoing through the stone corridors. Unlike Fiona, the Seeker was not encased in lyrium crystals, but the metallic luster of her voice, the eerie crimson sheen of her eyes, suggested that it would not be long before she shared the Grand Enchanter's fate. She sat alone in her cell, praying aloud for forgiveness and deliverance, a once proud warrior broken by whatever torments had been visited on her.

"Cassandra!" Amelia rushed to her friend, battling with the rusted lock to wrench open the cell door.

Cassandra raised her red eyes, the dull resignation on her face melting into amazement as Amelia pulled her to her feet. "You've returned to us! Can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance?"

The mage she had thought lost dragged the Seeker into a fierce embrace, holding her tightly as Cassandra began to weep. "She has," Amelia promised her fervently. "I'm here."

"Maker forgive me, I _failed_ you," Cassandra sobbed into her shoulder. "I failed everyone. The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life. Anthony? Is he with you?"

"This isn't the end," Amelia told her friend, with confidence she really didn't feel, her heart aching at the longing she heard in Cassandra's voice for just a glimpse of her brother. She drew back, meeting those red eyes with barely a flinch. "You haven't failed anyone. I'm not back from the dead, Cassandra, I just got ..." She hesitated. "It's hard to explain."

"I was _there_ ," the Seeker reminded her wonderingly. "The magister obliterated you with a gesture."

At a loss as to how she could possibly explain this, Amelia looked to Dorian helplessly. He rose to the challenge, with a surprisingly simple explanation. "Alexius sent us forward in time," he told the weeping woman. "If we find him, we may be able to return to the present."

_That_ pulled Cassandra up short, her tears drying as she looked sharply between the two mages. "Go back in time?" she wondered aloud. "Then ... can you make it so that none of this ever took place?"

"I'll make sure of it, Cassandra," Amelia promised her. "But we need your help. You know the castle; we don't."

Cassandra's hands suddenly gripped her arms, holding her there with a desperation that was frightening to behold. Cassandra was always calm and in control. This was all wrong. "After you died, we could not stop the Elder One from rising," she said, that sense of failure imbuing her every word. "Empress Celene was murdered. The army that swept in afterward ... it was a horde of demons. Nothing stopped them. Nothing."

"None of that will happen," Amelia swore fiercely, holding her friend's gaze. "I promise."

Her oath seemed to satisfy the tainted Seeker, for Cassandra released her with a nod, turning to wrench her sword and shield from the red crystals that lined her cell. "Then I am with you," she agreed, and for a moment, she was the Cassandra Amelia knew. "Maker guide us all, I will not fail you again."

"There are no more cells down here," Dorian pointed out as the three of them left that corner of the dungeon. "Where else might your dwarf friend be?"

"There is another dungeon, on the west side of the castle," Cassandra volunteered. She may not have particularly _liked_ Varric, but he had braved the danger at her side when they had lost their Herald. "If he is anywhere, Varric will be there."

And so he was, humming to himself as he polished Bianca with his sleeve, both himself and his crossbow infused with the same eerie crimson that marked Cassandra. Like the Seeker, he seemed broken by his time in this terrible place, his musical stylings the only way he could offer any form of defiance to jailers who seemed to have forgotten his existence. His reaction to seeing Amelia, though, was all Varric.

"Andraste's sacred knickers, you're alive!" he gasped, clambering to his feet as they broke the lock on his cell door. "Where _were_ you? How did you escape?"

Once again, it was Dorian who explained. Amelia was too busy hugging her friend to even try. "We didn't escape," the Tevinter mage said. "Alexius sent us into the future."

"Huh." Varric pulled back from Amelia's embrace, looking her over with a familiar grin. "Everything that happens to you is weird, Duchess."

She let out a soft laugh, despite everything. "You have _no_ idea," she agreed, her smile fading into concern as she touched his cheek. "Varric, you don't look so good. What happened?"

"Bite your tongue," the dwarf smirked, straightening his shoulders. "I look damn good for a dead man."

Behind her, Amelia heard Dorian scoff outrageously, glad that _he_ could play along with the fatalistic humor. She just didn't have the heart - so much here was so terribly _wrong_. How had all this happened? Was _this_ what the world would become if she failed to close the Breach?

"You're no more dead than we are," Dorian was telling the dwarf pointedly, gesturing to himself with a flamboyant hand. "And I would know if I were dead. Corpses rarely dress so well."

Varric shook his head. "The not dying version of this red lyrium stuff? _Way_ worse. Just saying."

"Agreed," Cassandra interjected from where she was investigating the other cells along the walls.

"Uh, Seeker?" Varric frowned in her direction. "You're not going to like what you find over there."

"Anyway," Dorian interrupted, impatient to be moving on. "We get to Alexius, and I just might be able to send us back to our own time. Simple, really."

The dwarf shook his head once again. "That may not be as easy as you think," he warned with a heavy frown. "Alexius is just a -"

"Cullen?"

Amelia's head snapped toward Cassandra, missing the deep wince that touched Varric's face at the sound of that name. Not even his grip on her arm could stop her from wrenching herself away, ignoring his imploring warning not to look. She stumbled out of his cell, sidestepping Cassandra's reaching arm to look into the cell the Seeker had discovered. What she found there drove her to her knees, all the breath leaving her body in one shuddering rush.

The cell was thick with red lyrium, sharp crystals jutting out from the bars in wicked clusters, denying any chance to reach the man encased in their midst. Cullen was almost consumed by the evil mineral, his body bound tightly in the vile corruption. Only his face was visible, and even there the poisonous shards had made their mark, sprouting from his cheek and jaw in a hideous disfigurement of the beauty that had always been his. Even his eyes, so warm and golden in the time she had left, were dull with the crimson sheen of the tainted lyrium.

Tears spilled from her eyes as she looked on the horror that had befallen her husband, remembering that the last words they had shared had been sad and dark. What was he doing here? How had he come to this end? Indeed, she thought him dead, until she heard a hiss escape through lips that could hardly form words.

"Ame ..."

"I'm here," she wept, not daring even to reach out to him, afraid of what his crystal prison could do to her. "I'm here, Cul. I'm so sorry, I should have listened to you. I should have been here to save you."

"Shhh ..." The misshapen lips pulled tight, the only smile he could offer her, the only comfort left that he could give. "No tears ..."

Yet that only made her weep harder, berating herself for the decision that had brought him to this state. If only she had listened to him; if only she had gone to Therinfal Redoubt and never learned of the magister in Redcliffe. This was all her fault - the lyrium, the demons, the suffering of the world. She had condemned her Cullen to this horrific, lingering death, for what? To make a point about mages. Yet it was mages who had done this to him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered once more. "I'll make it right. I promise."

"Ame ..." he breathed again, that intimate shortening of her name only he had ever used. "I love y ..."

The breath caught in his throat, a death rattle that smote her to the heart. She cried out, barely aware of hands pulling her away, drawing her out of the dungeon as her husband's form shattered, scattering deadly red lyrium across the narrow space. But that sound did not bring on more tears. Amelia felt her heart harden with anger, her expression setting into grim determination as she wiped her cheeks dry of her tears, taking up her staff as she stood.

"Amelia?"

She looked at her companions, fury simmering behind her eyes as she took them in - Cassandra's sympathy, Varric's guilt, Dorian's confusion. Each of them wanting to help her, but uncertain quite how. But she knew what would help.

"We find Leliana," she told them, her tone flat with grieving anger. "Alexius is _mine_."

And then, she promised the departed ... then they would make this right.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a peculiarity of the Haven Chantry that candlesticks were only used in the chapel proper. In the war room, once the Revered Mother's quarters, an entire sideboard was devoted to candles, stood randomly in groups of three or four, set in place by the spilled wax of their predecessors. When one burned out, it was customary to set its successor in the molten remains, thus adding to the accumulation obscuring the original surface. It was a habit that seemed to deeply offend the Herald of Andraste, but not even her fussy habits could make a difference.

Cullen sighed as he set a new candle in place, a faint smile touching his weary features at the memory of the disgusted glance Amelia gave the sideboard every time she entered here. She was probably itching to clean it up, but she'd had no time or opportunity to do so. Oh, Amelia ... Their rooms in the Gallows had been spotless, lovingly maintained in a state of order and cleanliness he had never developed a knack for in his personal spaces. But he had appreciated the lack of clutter and dust, once he'd learned just where everything was kept. It may have seemed a small thing to her, but the order with which she helped him begin and end each day had been a balm to his troubled spirit.

He blinked out of his thoughts, pinching the bridge of his nose as he returned to the great map. His sleep last night had been disturbed, old nightmares coming to the fore once more to torment his mind and soul. They were easier to bear with lyrium, but he did not want to always be reliant on the stuff. Amelia's insistence on weaning him slowly off it had negated many of the unpleasant side effects he had been suffering alone with his ill-fated attempt to never touch the blue again. She had started him on just half the dose he had been taking in the days before he walked away from being a templar, and now, four months on, his daily philter had been reduced to just a fraction of that, a mouthful swallowed with the dawn every day. Oh, the pains still came, and likely always would, hitting him worst when he pushed himself too hard, or allowed fear and anger to ferment too long in his mind. Yet they were not so severe as they had been before his wife's gentle assumption of responsibility for overcoming his addiction. He could work through these pains, his mind still clear enough to trust in his ability to make decisions, his hand steady enough to bear a sword or write his orders. The nightmares, too, would never leave him entirely - he had seen too much, suffered too much, to ever expect to be free of them. But he had ways to cope with those sleepless nights, no longer too afraid to even attempt sleep. As he recalled, they had been easiest to bear when Amelia slept in his arms, but that was an intimacy he was not ready to venture yet. There were so many words still unspoken between them. It would take more than wishful thinking to clear the air and truly begin again.

His fingertips touched the owl marker on the map - _her_ marker. Her last reported position had been in the foothills of the Frostbacks two days ago, making good time back to Haven in the wake of what sounded like a truly horrifying experience in Redcliffe. Time magic, demon armies ... Amelia's report had come by messenger, and that sheaf of parchment had made for sobering reading. She had left nothing out, including a graphic description of his own death in that dark future. As if he needed any more reason to despise red lyrium and those who moved it.

He had _not_ been happy with Leliana's plan in the first place, and it had nothing to do with his frustration at the blindingly obvious necessity of removing the magister. He had spoken at some length on his objections - shouted was a more honest description - accusing the Nightingale of everything from deliberately withholding information to actively having a hand in the magister's presence in Redcliffe in the first place. But what had _really_ set him off was her cavalier attitude to putting Amelia directly into danger. _I will not allow you to send my wife blindly into harm's way_ ... or words to that effect. The thought of Amelia trapped in that impregnable castle, subject to torture and death at the hands of a Tevinter magister, had sent him over the edge from rational argument into blind panic. To her credit, Leliana had let him rant and rave, and then quietly punctured his rage by suggesting that he warn his wife of the trap in an addendum to her raven-sent missive. In response, he had fumbled his way through an apology, only to have her dismiss it with a laugh and a comment that it was good to see him caring for more than tents, swords, and drills. Come to think of it, Josephine _and_ Leliana had been smiling at him a _lot_ since that meeting.

The situation in Redcliffe had changed everything. Whatever the templars were doing at Therinfal Redoubt, there was a clear threat brewing at the hands of Gereon Alexius. It had to be dealt with, and if their intervention meant destroying all hope of approaching the templars, then so be it. Cullen wasn't at peace with the decision, feeling as though he had betrayed his brothers and sisters in the Order, though he knew there had been no choice. Setting Amelia's life into the hands of another Tevinter mage, despite the sound strategy of it, had not sat well with him either. Even though it had proved to be the right decision, he did not like this Dorian Pavus' proximity to the Herald of Andraste. To his _wife_. The man was too smooth, too charming, too handsome. he had his own agenda, and it worried Cullen to think of Amelia being hurt by some heedless scheme.

Not as much, however, as the decision Amelia had been forced into at Redcliffe. He had warned her against presuming to speak for the Inquisition, but given the circumstances, he knew he could not blame her too much. The presence of King Alistair and Queen Anora was intimidating enough, and the threat of violence had clearly been all too real. But a full alliance ... Maker's breath. Did she _know_ what she'd done? The mages had already proved that they could not be trusted with their own freedom, and yet she had offered them a full alliance with the Inquisition, with no restrictions on their movements or activities. An offer witnessed by the King and Queen of Ferelden, no less, denying any hope of inserting some cautionary clause into the agreement. It was a disaster in the making ...

He stopped his thoughts before they could spiral out of control. Not every mage was like Uldred. Amelia was his proof of that. Each time he found his fears escalating, he reminded himself of the mage who had shared his life intimately for three years. Uldred was the exception, not the rule. Amelia knew mages. She had to have her reasons for this decision she had dragged them all into.

Reasons he would soon hear, it seemed, as the sound of cheering penetrated the thick silence. Haven only cheered like that for their Herald. He pushed away from the map, making his way out into the chapel proper. It was no surprise to find Josephine and Leliana already there, still discussing the pros and cons of their new alliance.

"... there will be alarm at the freedom we have offered the mages," Josephine was saying in a cautionary tone. "We will need to convince our noble allies of the wisdom in this arrangement."

"The nobles see _all_ mages as a threat," Leliana said dismissively. "I do not see the need to impose restrictions on our new allies, They have already tasted the danger of giving anyone too much say in their affairs."

"The danger is not a matter for debate," Cullen told her yet again, coming to stand with them as the doors opened to admit Amelia, Cassandra, and the Tevinter mage, Dorian Pavus. "There is an increased risk of abominations so close to the Breach. We must be prepared."

"If we rescind the offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent, at best," Josephine pointed out warily. "Tyrannical, at worst."

"I said nothing of rescinding the offer," he said patiently, looking to the newcomers as they joined the discussion. "I am simply restating my concerns about mages with no oversight in such close proximity to a tear in the Veil."

"There _will_ be oversight, commander," Cassandra assured him confidently. "Though we will have to mediate for a time, I believe, until a balance is found."

"What are you talking about, Cassandra?" Leliana frowned curiously.

"The Herald can explain better than I," the Seeker said, nodding toward Amelia. "I may not fully agree with her decision, but I support it."

Cullen's own curiosity focused on Amelia. She looked exhausted, heartsick, her eyes moving hungrily over his face even as he caught her gaze. She swallowed at the sudden attention, clearly her throat to speak.

"I have ... arranged oversight for the mages," she told them, her voice hoarse from her dry throat. "Cullen is right - there _is_ an increased risk. I would like to believe all mages share my belief in peace, my self-control, but I am not so foolish as to think they all do. So the night before we left Redcliffe ... I sent a raven to Therinfal Redoubt."

"The Lord Seeker will not have read that message," Leliana warned her. "But thank you for explaining the whereabouts of my bird."

"I didn't send it to the Lord Seeker," Amelia said wearily.

"Then ... to whom did you send your message?" Josephine asked the obvious question, though she seemed more concerned about the way the mage was leaning heavily on her staff than the content of the conversation.

"To Ser Delrin Barris," Amelia elaborated. She looked at their confused faces, sighing through her tired smile. "In Val Royeaux, _one_ templar objected to the assault on Mother Hevara; _one_ templar questioned the Lord Seeker's actions. I asked Varric to use his people and discover his name for me. And the message I sent was very simple - I offered sanctuary within the Inquisition for any templar unwilling to follow Lucius, any templar who wants peace. Four days ago, I got a reply."

"Ser Barris believes the officers of the Order have been corrupted," Cassandra took up the tale. "He circulated the Herald's offer among those in the ranks whom he trusts, and reports that some forty are marching to Haven to join the Inquisition."

"So few," Josephine murmured, but Cullen was fighting the urge to hoot with delight. Amelia had done what he had been afraid to do without the agreement of all, offering a chance to the templars trapped within the Order who were loyal to Thedas. All right, so it was going to mean there would be an escalation in tension in Haven for a while, but he could deal with that.

"Why?" Leliana was demanding. "Why would you do this?"

"Because the templars deserve a chance," Amelia answered her. "Because we need people who can counter magic gone wrong, just in case. And because I believe it will take both mages _and_ templars to close the Breach. Solas doesn't like it, but he agrees with my reasoning."

The Nightingale frowned deeply, crossing her arms over her chest. "Explain."

Amelia sighed once again. "We need power, yes," she said calmly. "But we also need control. Mages are used to channeling their energy through a staff - asking a group to focus their power into my hand has no guarantee of success. Templars cannot create it, but they _can_ focus magical energy toward a certain place. I've seen them do it - taking hold of a released spell and sending it harmlessly away from them. Mages can provide the power we need; templars can ensure that _I_ am the focus of it. Power _and_ control, not one or the other."

"The idea has merit in more than one sense," Josephine spoke into the thoughtful silence that followed. "Cooperation in adversity often overcomes prejudices. If both mages and templars work together to seal the Breach, there will be the potential for a more lasting peace between them."

"The voice of pragmatism speaks," Dorian piped up, earning himself a rather hard look from Cullen. The mage had his hand on Amelia's shoulder, and the commander was trying very hard not to reach out and snatch it away from her. "Or is it fatalism? I can never recall the difference."

"Closing the Breach is our goal," Cassandra declared, defiantly looking Leliana in the eye. " _I_ approve."

Leliana considered Amelia for a long moment, no hint of what she was thinking behind her steely gaze. Then she turned to Cullen. "Well, commander? Can you keep the peace with the war now transferred to within our own ranks?"

Despite his elation at this unexpected turn of events, Cullen could still foresee the potential for disaster. "We will have to keep a tight rein on both groups," he said thoughtfully. "But attitudes will change in close ranks. There may be a few expulsions in the first weeks, but the ultimate goal is peace. Yes, I believe this will work."

"Then we have consensus, for the first time." Leliana nodded, her eyes flickering back to Amelia. "But next time, Herald ... a discussion before you act."

"I didn't have a lot of room for finesse, Leliana," Amelia responded mildly. "But as you wish."

Finally the Left Hand cracked a smile. "You did well," she conceded, a hint of warmth in her usually level tone. "It was not what any of _us_ might have done, but ... perhaps Andraste might have, in your position."

"I would never presume to have the wisdom of Andraste," Amelia demurred, but she was touched by the compliment, Cullen could tell. "Templars _and_ mages are going to require a great deal of untainted lyrium," she added tentatively. "I ... made contacts in the Hinterlands who can help."

"Contacts, meaning smugglers," Cassandra clarified, her expression disapproving.

Leliana, however, looked impressed. "Send them word," she told Amelia. "We need every advantage."

"We do have legitimate lyrium supply lines already," Cullen felt obliged to point out.

"And they don't need to hear of this," Leliana countered with a wry quirk of her brow.

Josephine sighed, but her eyes were bright at the thought of another challenge for her diplomacy skills. "Keep it under the table," the ambassador suggested. "I'll do what I can to quiet rumors."

That settled, Leliana's expression grew grave. "We should look into the things you saw in this dark future," she said seriously. "The assassination of Empress Celene, a demon army. It is troubling."

"Sounds like something a Tevinter cult might do," Dorian interjected lightly, watching Cullen's face with an expression that made the commander feel deeply uncomfortable. What was the man looking for? "Orlais falls, the Imperium rises. Chaos for everyone."

"One battle at a time." Cullen broke in to avoid the inevitable debate. "It's going to take time to organize our troops, and settle the animosity between our new mages and templars. Let's take this into the war room," he suggested, his gaze softening as he met Amelia's eyes. "Join us. None of this means anything without you."

"And I'd thought to sit out the assault on the Breach," she sighed, a bright smile cracking her dejected expression almost instantly. "Take a nap, maybe go for a walk."

Cullen found himself chuckling at her tease, glad her spirit hadn't been broken in Redcliffe. "What is it they say? No rest for the wicked."

"I'm not wicked," she objected in amusement. "I'm mildly naughty, at best."

"Enough!" It was Josephine's turn to step in, laughing as she waved a hand between them. An argument between Herald and commander could go on for hours - who knew how long they could banter for? "Meet us there, Lady Trevelyan, when you're ready."

In spite of his levity, Cullen scowled when Dorian pulled Amelia aside, keeping her from following immediately. The man caught his scowl, throwing a delighted smile back at him before the door to the war room swung shut once more. What did that Tevinter have to smile about? All right, _yes_ , in all probability he had saved Amelia's life, and consequently the world, but surely that was no reason to look so smug. Jealousy was not an attractive trait, he knew, but the level of familiarity between Amelia and Pavus set his teeth on edge. Was she having second thoughts about continuing their marriage?

Thankfully, she was quick to join them, bending her head over the map as Leliana and Josephine brought her up to speed on what had been happening in her absence. She had changed in the months since the Conclave, no longer shy of speaking up with her thoughts in these meetings. He had noticed that they all had begun to look for _her_ opinion on a given course of action; her preference decided what _they_ would do. Her contact with the templars showed a degree of confidence that had been lacking until now. She had seen a solution and taken it, trusting her own instincts, rather than seeking out the tedium of circular debate. He was proud of her; proud of the woman she had become, proud to be able to call himself her friend ... and, perhaps someday, he would be able to call himself her husband once more.

His thoughts wandered as he watched her talk with Josephine and Leliana, admiring her fondly in silence. She had filled out a little on the regular meals the Inquisition provided, some of her softness returning to compliment the toned strength of her core, hidden beneath her fitted armor. There had always been intelligence in her eyes to catch his attention, but she was learning quickly to grasp strategy after months of war room meetings, able to spot flaws he missed from his own perspective. Her smile came more readily as she relaxed into her position, sharing her humor with those she considered her friends. A lock of hair had fallen into her face; his fingers twitched against the pommel of his sword, wanting to tuck it back just for an excuse to touch her. Would she lean into that touch, the way she had before, or would she shake it away? Would she ever welcome him into her arms again?

"... commander?"

"What?" With a start, he realized he should have been paying attention, snapping his gaze back to the map under Leliana's knowing smirk. "I'll begin preparations to begin marching on the summit," he said, hoping it was an appropriate response. "Maker willing, both templars _and_ mages will grant us victory."

"Indeed." That smirk of Leliana's was going to make him blush, he was sure. "Then I think we are done for now. The scouts will need time on the mountain, and in any case, we have to wait for our new allies to arrive."

That was all they _could_ do, for now. As they slipped away to their own business, Amelia hung back, catching Cullen's hand as he passed her. He turned ... and quite suddenly she was in his arms, hungry lips fastened to his own in a kiss he had not dared to even imagine, much less look for. But, _oh_ , how he had missed this. The clutch of her fingers in his hair, the ease with which his arms found their place about her waist, frustrated by the separation of his armor and hers between them as she drank desperately from him. She was still soft, still tender, still tasting faintly of berries as she slanted her mouth beneath his, demanding affection that he willingly gave, losing himself to the heady sensation of his wife in his arms. And just as suddenly, the kiss was over, leaving him breathless and bereft as he looked into her flushed face.

"I just ... needed to know," she whispered, her gloved fingers stroking against his cheek for a brief moment before she drew away, disappearing through the door to leave him staring at the wall in complete privacy.

She'd kissed him. He'd kissed her. The first kiss in over a year, and still she could make him lose his mind in moments. And to pull away ... she had held all the power, and exercised it, and he had not felt the need to take charge as he once had. But ... needed to know what, he wondered. What had she been so desperate to know that had needed a kiss to confirm? And, more importantly ... how in the name of Andraste's frilly undies was he supposed to concentrate _now?_


	9. Chapter 9

_My Lady Trevelyan,_

_I must thank you for your foresight in providing me with those letters for Madame Vivienne and Grand Enchanter Fiona. As you predicted, no sooner had the mages arrived than they fell to wrangling over which of them was in command of all mages now recruited by the Inquisition. The Grand Enchanter was, I believe, relieved by your instruction to defer to Solas in your absence; Madame Vivienne is reluctant, but informs me that your invitation to leave if she cannot cooperate peacefully is respectfully declined. Your methods are direct, but I confess myself relieved that you took steps to prevent magical war on our doorstep._

_The Iron Bull and his Chargers have been paid their requested advance. I believe Commander Cullen has set them to the task of training the newer recruits in the absence of further instructions. And, if I may be so bold, he misses you._

_With respect and hope,_  
_Josephine Montilyet_

 

* * *

 

Herald,

The presence of a Ben-Hassrath agent has alarmed some of my own agents. His first report has already been submitted, and does not compromise our operations. Should this continue, he is welcome to stay.

I am removing Scout Harding to the Fallow Mire to investigate the disappearance of another scouting party. I will keep you informed.

\- Leliana

 

* * *

 

_Cullen,_

_It's raining. You remember how much I hate rain, don't you? Even Varric is complaining. Apparently moldy dwarf is not a smell I will enjoy. Not only that, but the constant motion of the sea is making me seasick on dry land. This is a wretched place, and I cannot stand the sight of it. I think I can be forgiven my awful mood, however._

_I failed them, Cullen. Harding's missing scouts were slaughtered long before we located them. They were just left where they fell. Their bodies hadn't even been looted. Cassandra has arranged for their bodies to be collected, and I believe Leliana is informing their families. The ones responsible call themselves the Blades of Hessarian, and that is where things grow complicated. I was furious, and I may have made an error in judgment. I challenged their leader, and no sooner was he dead on the ground than they swore their loyalty to **me** , personally. How can I possibly command the company that slaughtered our own people? They seem repentant, that they regret what they were ordered to do, and almost pleased that their former leader is dead, and yet I can't risk them anywhere near the Inquisition. I need your advice._

_Speaking of trouble, how are the templars and mages settling in? I understand Solas has been accepted as the mage-commander. Has that helped, or have I made your life horrendously difficult with my meddling?_

_To end on a lighter note, I found some prophet's laurel today. That potion for your headaches should be ready by the time I get back. Do try to remember to sleep._

_\- Ame_

 

* * *

 

Amelia,

Try not to look at individual waves and swells. The sea taken as a whole can be quite calming.

Your stomach should recover with your mood; your physical state has always reflected your emotional state. You have failed no one. Our people know the risks, and still they volunteer, because they believe in our cause. Though the loss of them is grievous, it is no one's fault but the man who ordered their deaths, and you have already avenged them. The Blades of Hessarian are a known mercenary organization, and your actions have restored their honor. I agree that keeping them clear of the Inquisition is the wiser course. Have them stabilize and monitor the Storm Coast in your name - that should keep them occupied, and allow us to turn our attention to the rest of Thedas. The last thing we need is for our soldiers to begin fighting among themselves as well.

The mage-templar war made a spirited attempt to start itself up again over a missing gauntlet. The templar in question decided to forego a formal complaint and took it upon himself to try and force the mage he accused to submit to a search. By the time Solas and I reached them, several others had joined, and they were on the verge of open battle. Solas can talk fast when he needs to, can't he? _You_ were invoked a few times before the original dispute came to light - the accused mage had, in fact, taken the gauntlet to have one of the Tranquil fix a faulty enchantment embedded within it. We reiterated the need for communication in all things, and Ser Barris has taken to randomly inspecting the templars under his command to make certain they are fully aware of the whereabouts of their kit and belongings. No one was at fault and everyone was forced to apologize, but we are all sleeping more lightly these days. The sooner their training for the assault on the Breach begins, the sooner they will start to notice their similarities over their differences.

The headaches are not as common, nor as bad, as you insist on believing. I have been meaning to ask, however ... _why_ have you put the altus in charge of my lyrium doses? the man delights in annoying me. The Iron Bull seems the only person who can discomfort him.

Be safe out there, Ame. And leave the dragon alone.

\- Cullen

 

* * *

 

_Cullen,_

_How did you know about the dragon? Let me guess - Leliana can actually **talk** to those ravens she's got shadowing my every move. Don't you trust me?_

_I've done as you suggested with the Blades. They keep going on about it being right and proper that they're taking orders from the Herald of Andraste, so I doubt we'll have any problems with them. Cumbersome as the title is, it does seem to get results._

_It doesn't surprise me to hear that the smallest upset can set off the mage-templar conflict again, but if the threat of my ire is actually having a positive effect, maybe you should let some of them know you're my husband. You may find them more inclined to listen to you over Solas in such a case. As good as he is, I do not fully trust Solas. I do, however, trust **you** implicitly._

_Dorian is in charge of your lyrium because I trust him with your life, and that should tell you how trustworthy he is. He teases because he likes you, and you always rise to the bait. He likes to play, that's all. Try giving as good as you get sometime. it can be quite a lot of fun._

_Thank you for sending the cloak, by the way. I may not be the most stylish holy symbol in the world, but at least I'm dry now. We're heading straight to the Fallow Mire, rather than coming to Haven. Harding has some dark suspicions about that missing squad, and I am not losing anyone else if I can possibly help it._

_Be well,_

_\- Ame_

 

* * *

 

To my believed cousin, the Herald of Andraste, Lady-mage Amelia Trevelyan of Ostwick,

That is a mouthful, isn't it? It's only going to get longer when you finally get around to tacking your husband's name on the end there. And speaking of your commander, what an utter delight that man is. Hidden beneath that devilishly handsome exterior, I have uncovered a sense of humor nearly the equal to my own. And the barbs he can throw! I tell you, my dear, if he were not so clearly smitten with you, I might well have seduced him already. I am, of course, too enamored of you myself to give it more than idle thought. Have you planned your seduction yet? I am only too happy to offer guidance.

Haven without you is, I fear, gloriously tedious. Your stalwart Mother Giselle makes no bones about her distrust of the terrifying Tevinter mage, and several of her darling sister clerics follow suit slavishly. I did hear tell of some disaster with her laundry after one particularly public and strident exchange. Something to do with all her smalls mysteriously turning bright red and bleeding into everything white she owns. I believe your Red Jenny may be defending my honor, such as it is. I feel so loved.

I shall not go on further. I feel sure you have better things to do than read my fulsome prose. Do be a dear and come back in one piece.

Your esteemed cousin,  
Altus Dorian Pavus of Qarinus

 

* * *

 

_For the attention of the war room,_

_It's raining all over this miserable bog. There are ambulatory corpses protecting the water for some reason. Our people are being held by an Avvar braggart who thinks his gods are better than ours. Will write soon._

_\- Herald_

 

* * *

 

Amelia,  
_(scrawled underneath - Dearest, darlingest, Heraldest coochie-woo)_

Fire is your ally with the undead. The smell, however, is unpleasant at best. Take care with the Avvar. They are a physically strong people, fierce and implacable in combat. My advice is to allow Cassandra and Blackwall to engage this braggart while you hold back. no mage armor is strong enough to withstand a blow from their heavy weapons. I would rather not lose you to your own zeal for justice.  
_(in the margin - a picture of a stick figure holding a staff being squashed by another stick figure wielding a hammer)_

Preparations for the assault on the Breach are finally underway. The necessity of understanding one another in order to work together appears to be overcoming blind prejudice in both ranks. There have been fewer scuffles, and while they still distrust one another, both mages and templars have accepted Inquisition authority. However, I suspect it is _you_ to whom they are loyal. They speak of you with reverent respect at all times.  
_(Well, duh. It's the glow, innit?)_

Despite my reservations, I must thank you for the potion you concocted. It has all but banished my headaches. If only a cure for sleepless nights was so easy to come by.  
_(You still not knocking boots? Aren't you s'posed to be married to your Cully-Wully?)_

Be safe, Ame. You are missed.  
_(in the margin - a crude drawing of marital relations with some features wildly exaggerated, captioned with - Smoochicuddlekins, touch my lovely hair and make me purr)_

\- Cullen

 

* * *

 

_Cullen,_

_You really need to read these over before sending them. Sera enjoys your letters almost as much as I do._

_To cut a long story short, our people are alive and on their way home. The Avvar had a hard time capturing them, which seems to be why they kept them as hostages. The customs of respect in a warrior culture baffle me. Their leader was fearsome, but young, and no match for Cassandra and Blackwall. One of his people, Sky Watcher, has agreed to join the Inquisition - with luck, that should keep the Avvar from picking any more fights with us._

_I'm staying a while longer in this Maker-forsaken bog to hunt down an insane apostate. He seems to be responsible for the demons, and perhaps the undead, as well. I will be careful, I promise. I miss you too much to risk not coming home._

_\- Ame_

 

* * *

 

Herald - preparations are complete. Return to Haven. It is time.


	10. Chapter 10

At long last, the blizzard had ended. Crisp white snow glistened beneath the moon's silver glow. Haven was gone, buried beneath a man-made avalanche. The deadly rush had taken the red templars with it, though the dragon had been seen flying away before the snow truly reached the village. Had the Elder One been buried too? Was it really so much to ask that the intentional catastrophe that had taken the Herald of Andraste from them had already ended the threat for good?

The camp was subdued, every one of them just a little broken by what had happened. To have come so close to victory; to have sealed the Breach with such success, only to be defeated by an enemy they had not thought to look for. It was too much to bear. To know that the Herald of Andraste had willingly gone to her death to save them ... that was the cruelest blow of all. Of all they had lost, she was the one most mourned. How could they go on without her?

Cullen stood at the crest of the valley they had retreated to, unable to tear his gaze from the ruin of Haven. Was she down there still, he wondered, her final resting place among corrupted templars who had not had the sense to take the sanctuary she had offered them? Or had the dragon removed her body, to be defiled in punishment for perceived crimes against its master? Just the thought of that made him sick to his stomach. Hadn't this Corypheus done enough to her?

"Ame ..." he whispered to the uncaring night, his heart crushed within his chest.

She was gone. She _couldn't_ be gone. She'd always been there; even when he had sent her away from Kirkwall, he'd had the comfort of knowing that she was alive somewhere in the world, that he had saved her from almost certain death. But he had not saved her this time. He'd abandoned her, when he'd sworn he would never do such a thing again. It didn't matter that she had told him to go; that she had _ordered_ him to guide their people safely out of harm's way. His failure had been set in stone the moment that army began to march. To save their people, Amelia had sacrificed herself, and to his shame, he had allowed her to do it. It should have been him.

"Biting, burning, the cold stings and numbs and tears; it hurts, hurts so much ..."

He startled at the sound of that voice, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, but it was only Cole, that strange boy who had risked so much to warn them of the attack. The boy was crouched in the snow nearby, his gaze fixed on some unknown point farther down the mountainside. Cullen relaxed, too caught up in his grief to care that he was no longer alone.

"... the throne of the gods is empty. No. No, I cannot believe that. Andraste guide me, show me the path through this darkness ..."

What a bitter pill that was to swallow. None of the mages could guess how, but every one of the survivors had heard Amelia's confrontation with the Elder One as though it took place beside them. They had heard his claims with terrifying clarity, frightened by the implications of what had been said. They had heard their Herald spit defiance back in his face. Cullen's heart twisted painfully as he recalled again the sound of her defiance, her stubborn refusal to simply lie down and die. In those moments, she had stood for all of them, refusing to be cowed, refusing his desire to be a god. If only she had lived, they might have been able to pick up the pieces and go on. The creature had named her his rival. Without her, they had no defense against what might come next.

"... not afraid, I am not afraid. But I _am_ afraid. Of the night, of the cold, of not knowing. What is the point of love if it is always lost ..."

Whoever Cole was, he seemed to be in a state very close to the despair crowding through Cullen's mind and heart. His Ame, lost to the spiteful malice of a darkspawn magister. But she'd never known she was his, not for certain. He had never told her, never confessed her place in his heart. Never held her just for the sake of holding; never shared with her how he had only begun to live when she had entered his life. Never shared his deepest secrets, despite her often asking. He loved her. He had failed her.

"... pain that flares and cuts like a knife. My hand burns, Fade light to feel my way. Have to keep going. Have to find them, find _him_ ..."

Something in the boy's rambling broke through Cullen's bitter self-recrimination. He raised his head, staring at Cole in heart-stopping alarm. "What did you say?"

"... green against the snow. Embers ... still warm. They've been this way ... He's been here. Just a few more steps ..."

Fade light from a burning hand, green against the snow. There was only one person Cole could possibly be thinking of, describing in that moment. The boy shied back as Cullen reached out abruptly, prevented from escape by the hard grip the commander took on his shoulders.

"What are you saying?" he demanded harshly. "Is she alive?"

Cole's strange watery eyes came sharply into focus, looking away from the pain he was sensing into the angry hope that dominated the man holding him in place. "You are her beacon and her shield," he said calmly. "The snow chills her, the dread wolf howls, and she yearns toward you."

That was all the proof Cullen needed. "Tell the healers to prepare," he ordered the boy, already turning to stride out into the knee-deep drifts.

Amelia was alive! Out there, somewhere, searching for home. He was barely out of the shelter of the rocks when he heard the heavy stumble of a body forcing through the snow at his back. As he turned, he felt the oddly comforting closeness of a magical barrier form around him, shielding him from the worst of the biting wind. "What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded ungratefully.

"My dear fellow, if you think I'm going to let you plunge out into the night without me, you've got another thing coming," Dorian puffed as he came level with the commander. His expression was unusually somber as he added, "Amelia would never forgive me if I let something happen to you."

"If we don't find her soon, you won't have the luxury of being unforgiven," Cullen ground out, irritated by Dorian's mere presence. If he were brutally honest, that probably had something to do with his sudden desire to be Amelia's hero and rescue her all by himself.

"In that case, _I_ won't forgive me," Dorian countered, but any further debate was cut off as Cole seemed to appear between them.

"Not far, down there," the boy interrupted, pointing down the mountain. "Can't walk, can't think. The snow bites her hands and she does not give up."

"Come on, then," Cullen ordered them both, forgetting his irritation in a sudden surge of loving concern for the woman struggling alone in the night.

Even he had to admit that Dorian's presence was welcome in that headlong rush down the mountain. The mage held a barrier over all of them as they pushed on, the air within kept warm by their own exertions. He even managed to keep Cole focused; the boy had a tendency, it seemed, to hone in on whoever was closest, and that was not what they needed right now. Yet somehow Dorian kept the boy's mind focused on Amelia, the jumble of words and feelings growing more coherent the closer they got. It was an exquisite sort of pain to listen to him; to know that the thoughts belonged to Amelia, private and yet violated for the sole purpose of her rescue. To hear her pain and despair growing, her strength ebbing, even as they closed the distance. And without both of them with him, Cullen knew he would never have found her in time.

"... I shall die here, and he will never know, never guess how I loved him ..."

"There!"

Dorian pointed his staff, sending a flare of electricity arcing over the snow to illuminate the darkness. Cullen peered after it, squinting into the night ... and felt a surge of unbridled joy as he spied a faint flicker of green light against the moon-touched snow. Fade light to feel her way, indeed. His stride lengthened, forging a path through the drifts toward his fallen wife. She was kneeling in the burning blanket of snow, breathing hard, her face and hands mottled white and red with the cold.

"Ame!" Cullen staggered to his knees before her, fumbling to remove his bear-fur mantle even as he felt Dorian's magic infuse the air around her with gentle warmth. "Ame, it's me, it's Cullen. I've got you, you're safe."

Even lifting her head was a struggle, but somehow she found the strength to meet his eyes as he wrapped the warm fur securely about her shoulders. "... Cul? ... am I dead?"

"No," he promised her, his grin fierce as he watched Dorian pour a little of his own mana reserve into her. "You're alive. You're safe. We found you."

"We ...?" Her head drooped forward.

"She needs a healer," Dorian said, uncharacteristically terse. "I can't do any more for her."

"I will lead," Cole volunteered, his dim eyes bright as he basked in the unspoken love shared by husband and wife. "She wants to sleep."

_"No!"_

Cullen wasn't surprised to hear Dorian's denial of that desire resound with his own. He shook Amelia none too gently, relieved when her head jerked up once more. "Ame, you have to stay awake just a little while longer. We're not far from the camp, but you _have_ stay awake. Do you hear me?"

Bleary-eyed and utterly exhausted, she managed to nod in understanding. "I hear," she breathed, frozen fingers gripping his arm. "Help me ..."

As much as he wanted to lift her into his arms, Cullen knew that would only make it harder for her to stay conscious. She would have to walk, but he would help her every step of the way. Slowly, painfully, he and Dorian got her to her feet, the mage sacrificing his staff to give her a walking stick, to support the side Cullen did not have tucked protectively against himself. As he had promised, Cole lead the way, no longer babbling Amelia's every thought as they retraced their steps through snow already disturbed by their passage. It was slow going - Amelia was exhausted, frozen to the bone, drooping with every step. She didn't have the energy to keep her eyes open, and yet she forced herself onward, dragging her leaden limbs through the broken drifts, leaning heavily on Cullen as they went.

"There! It's them! It's the Herald!"

"Thank the Maker!"

If he hadn't been so chilled and exhausted by the seemingly endless hike up the mountain, Cullen could have kissed Cassandra for what happened next. Cole's warning to the healers had been overheard, it seemed. On the Seeker's orders, Inquisition soldiers rushed out to meet them, stamping down the snow to make the going easier, offering their support to their wilting commander and his party as they struggled onward. Within a matter of minutes, Cullen, Amelia, and Dorian were hustled into a tent so unnaturally warm, he immediately began to sweat, and once again he blessed the mages who had chosen to join them. He let the healers take Amelia from his grasp, confident that she was in good hands, and sank down shakily onto a cot beside Dorian, who didn't seem to be in much better shape than he was. Outside the tent, he could hear the joyful news spreading like wildfire. The Herald of Andraste was _alive_.

Some time later, he roused from deep sleep, warm and oddly tangled. It took a moment to realize that he was tangled not just in blankets, but in limbs, and there were too many of those to be entirely decent. "What in the name of -"

"Keep your voice down, she's sleeping."

Startled by the sound of Dorian's voice _quite_ so close, Cullen's eyes snapped fully open. He was still in that heated tent, the thick canvas buckled shut against the chilled air outside. He was also half-naked, clad only in his breeches, and buried beneath too many blankets for comfort. Dorian was also under those blankets, seemingly just as undressed as he was, and wedged between them, warm and soft and _alive_ , lay Amelia, her sleeping face nestled in the crook of the commander's shoulder. Uncomfortable though it was to be sharing a bed with Dorian Pavus, of all people, Cullen could see the wisdom in it. They had all been frozen in some way; this _was_ the safest manner of warming them all without harm.

"How is she?" he asked the mage in a voice rough with sleep.

"Miraculously unharmed," Dorian assured him, a wry tilt to his lips. "Not even a touch of frostbite. Either those boots are exceptional, or someone is watching over our Amelia."

The relief that flooded through him was almost enough to make Cullen forget the man was sharing a bed with him and his wife. "Thank the Maker," he breathed, tilting his head to gently caress her temple with his chin. Even in her sleep, she objected to the stubble, grimacing as she produced a soft sound of complaint. He smiled, afraid to laugh for fear of waking her. But not even Dorian's knowing smirk could stop him from pressing a kiss to her brow.

"Yes, I thought that was the case," the mage mused, every nuance of his tone and expression radiating approval. "You really should tell her how you feel, you know."

"That would hardly be fair," Cullen murmured, surprising himself with his response. But he would rather have her living and in love with someone else, than never drawing breath again. "She cares for you a great deal."

"Well, naturally she does," Dorian agreed in his flippant way. "I am adorable. I am also utterly impervious to her charms. Were she not so devoted to you - and I not so loyal to her - _you_ and I would have had this out weeks ago. I refuse to break up a happy marriage, even if the participants _are_ blissfully unaware of one another's feelings. I've seen so few of them in my lifetime." At Cullen's slightly stupefied look, he chuckled gently. "You do love her, don't you?"

Cullen felt his face redden at the direct question, unable to avoid the mage's gaze without disturbing the woman sleeping between them. "I ..."

"You don't have to tell _me_ ," Dorian asserted rather impishly. "Telling _her_ would be a very good start, however."

Cullen opened his mouth to answer, and was prevented by a blast of icy wind rushing over them as the tent flap was opened to admit Mother Giselle. Both he and Dorian huddled in closer to Amelia, trying to protect her from that bracing rush of air, and he surprised himself again by feeling no embarrassment at the way Dorian's hand gripped his elbow beneath the blanket, both of them focused on protecting _her_.

"I apologize, commander," the Chantry mother said in her lilting tone, apparently ignoring Dorian's presence entirely. "The healers believe that the Herald has had sufficient time to warm through, and I believe _you_ are required by Sister Leliana. I will sit with the Herald while you are gone."

"Because _I_ cannot be trusted with the health and well-being of my only friend," Dorian muttered facetiously.

Cullen frowned at the cold way Mother Giselle failed even to acknowledge the mage who had saved Amelia's life twice now. "Thank you, Mother," he said through that frown. "But if you could wait outside the tent a while longer? Altus Pavus and I are rather undressed."

Mother Giselle's eyes widened in shock, taking in the three-in-a-bed situation in front of her. She had apparently not been made aware of just what was involved in skin-to-skin contact. "Of course, commander, I ... I will wait outside."

Dorian shuddered as she left. "Charming woman," he commented mildly. "Puts me in mind of a serpent, but without the cuddly personality."

"Is she often that way with you?" Cullen asked, reluctantly disentangling himself from Amelia's clinging limbs as gently as he could.

"Often enough," was all Dorian would say on the matter, but Cullen wondered just how much racial prejudice the mage had to endure on a daily basis. When they were all safe again, he would have to look into countering such attitudes.

Knowing now that their rivalry had existed only in his head, Cullen realized that he looked on Dorian Pavus as a friend. The man had meticulously dosed him with ever decreasing amounts of lyrium in Amelia's absence, and not once had he questioned him over the reason why. Their verbal sparring was enjoyable, almost a highlight of each day, a challenge to keep up with the conversation of a man who was probably far more intelligent than Cullen could ever hope to be. Dorian had referred to Amelia as _their_ Amelia, and he was right. She belonged to all of them, and they belonged to her. In her shadow, they forged friendships that might never have come about without her. And Cullen protected his friends almost as fiercely as he did his wife.

His lips brushed her brow once again as the two men tucked her warm beneath the blankets. _Sleep peacefully, Ame,_ he wished in the silence of his heart. _Andraste bear witness, I will **never** abandon you again._


	11. Chapter 11

The next days were trying for the survivors of Haven. Shocked by Corypheus' attack, their leaders had spent a day arguing among themselves, unable to come to a consensus about what they should do next. Yet the appearance of the Herald of Andraste from her tent, alive and unharmed, had sent a ripple through the camp. Just the sight of their savior was enough to restore hope to the beleaguered hundreds who camped in that desolate valley, and when she announced to their leaders that she was going north to seek out a stronghold Solas knew of, there was no question of anyone staying behind. They followed her deep into the mountains, their faith uplifted by her survival and her purpose.

Skyhold was more than they could possibly have hoped for. It towered above a sweeping plateau, hemmed in by rocky peaks, a massive fortress that seemed to touch the very sky itself. Abandoned for who knew how long, it stood empty, waiting for them. Though some parts needed repair, it was not so great a job as it might have seemed. There was space for all of them, and though they still camped in their tents among rubble and debris, that first night Skyhold rang with song in celebration of their deliverance from harm.

The next morning saw the real work begin. Scouts were sent out to survey the surrounding area; ravens flew with messages to their allies; soldiers and engineers began work on the collapsed portions of the keep. The workers, mages, and templars looked to the Herald for orders of their own, and despite her discomfort at their faith in her, Amelia attempted to rise to the challenge. There were the injured and dying to tend to, food to hunt and gather, and she herself joined the crews clearing out and cleaning the living quarters. The sight and sound of the Herald _and_ her inner circle hauling debris and wielding wet mops with merry determination raised the morale of the Inquisition's people hugely, motivating the workforce to greater efforts. By the end of a week, only the most seriously injured were still sleeping in tents warmed by magic, their condition making it too dangerous to move them in their distress. With the fortress secured and habitable, the Inquisition could begin to get back on its feet, and look to the chaos of the world outside once more. There was just one small thing that needed doing.

"I don't like that we're backing her into this," Cullen informed his colleagues in a worried tone. "She's had no choice about her role in any of this so far. The least we could do is allow her to make this choice in privacy."

"Do you truly believe she will say no?" Leliana asked him curiously.

He sighed heavily. "No, I don't," he admitted reluctantly. "She has always done what was right. But this feels like coercion. She has been coerced enough."

"Taleyn had no choice, either," the spymaster told him, her face carefully blank as she spoke of her lost love. All these years, and the loss of the Hero of Ferelden still haunted her. "He rose to the occasion, as will she."

"As she already has," Josephine pointed out. "We have been following her orders for some months, even if she has not realized it. Her role will not change with a new title."

"Then I will make sure she knows that," Cassandra said firmly. "Leliana, is the sword ready?"

"Harritt has delivered it to the hall," Leliana confirmed. "On the parapet?"

"That seems a logical place," the Seeker agreed thoughtfully. "We want as many to witness as is possible."

"I can call a muster in two minutes," Cullen assured her. "You'll have your witnesses."

"Then it would seem that now is the perfect time," Josephine said, nodding across the lower courtyard to where Amelia had just emerged from the inner gatehouse, picking cobwebs out of her hair.

Cassandra caught the mage's eye, gesturing for her to join them, even as Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana melted away. Amelia raised a brow as she reached the Seeker, gesturing to the rest of the disappearing council. "Oh, this isn't suspicious at _all_."

Innocence was not an expression that played well on Cassandra's face but, to her credit, she tried. "I don't know what you mean."

"You're up to something," Amelia informed her calmly, stepping aside as a fresh group of travelers walked by, some moving to greet those already here with embraces laden with sobbing relief.

Cassandra watched her as she smiled at the newcomers. Amelia had changed; not simply since the Conclave, but more recently, since their defeat at Haven. Where she had been hesitant, slow to make suggestions, her encounter with Corypheus seemed to have given her new confidence. She had shouldered the responsibility for all their lives out of necessity, yet even once she was safe again, the mage had continued to bear the burden of the Inquisition without complaint. Her determination had lead them there, to Skyhold, and when their leaders had turned to their separate tasks, she had given herself the task of keeping the workers and ordinary soldiers busy, working alongside them to make the fortress a home. Gone was the woman who winced whenever eyes fell on her, who wrapped her hand to hide the Anchor from a casual glance. In her place stood a woman unafraid to lead, a woman who trusted her own instincts yet took the advice offered to her with good grace. A woman who showed off the mark on her hand to travelers who asked to see it, and took their reverent oaths of allegiance with gentle warmth.

"There are so many of them," Amelia commented as the two women watched the tearful reunions.

"They arrive daily, from every settlement in the region," Cassandra told her, a little in awe of that fact herself. "Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage."

"Can you really blame them?" the noble mage asked, turning to follow her friend up the broad flight of steps to the upper courtyard. "Even if they wished to visit the remains of the Temple, recent events have proven how dangerous it is. The Inquisition protected them in Haven, so they will come to the Inquisition, rather than risk the Valley of Sacred Ashes."

"True," Cassandra acknowledged as they climbed. "But if word has reached these people, it will have reached the Elder One. We have the walls and the numbers to put up a fight here, but this war is far beyond the one we anticipated." She paused at the top of the steps, turning to gauge Amelia's reaction to her next words more fully. "We now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew him to you."

Amelia sighed, looking down at her marked hand. Over the months, she had learned to ignore the constant itch, to push through the pain each time she closed a rift, but she was never going to forget the wrenching agony of Corypheus' magic reaching to rip the mark from her very being. Death would have been infinitely preferable to experiencing that much longer. "He came for this," she told Cassandra a little bitterly, flexing her hand. "But now it's useless to him, so he wants me dead. That's it."

The Seeker's unexpected smile was almost soft at this. "You really don't see it, do you?" she marveled, gesturing for Amelia to walk with her once more. "The Anchor has power, but it's not why you are still standing here."

"An avalanche is why I'm still standing," the mage drawled, retreating into humor rather than recall her horror of that blinding rush of white bearing down on her.

"No," Cassandra argued as they began to mount the twisting steps to Skyhold's main hall. "You are a strong woman, Amelia. _Your_ decisions let us heal the sky, _your_ determination brought us out of Haven. You are the creature's rival because of what _you_ did, and we know it. All of us."

As they reached the parapet, in full view of everyone on the battlements and in both courtyards, Amelia caught a distinct whiff of collusion. Leliana stood waiting for them, a bright sword laid over her hands, and a tiny, hopeful smile playing about her lips. Behind them, below them, all around them, the Inquisition was mustering, their eyes fixed on her, waiting for something ... and as Cassandra went on, she suddenly knew what they were waiting and hoping for.

"The Inquisition requires a leader," the Seeker was saying, and Amelia was certain every person there could hear her words. "The one who has already been leading it. You."

Eyes wide with shocked disbelief, Amelia found her gaze sweeping over the crowd gathered all around. Some of those faces she knew, most she didn't, but all watched her with the same faith and hope they had given her since that last night in Haven. They _believed_ in her, more than they believed in the Inquisition. She had taken responsibility for them when she had volunteered her life in exchange for theirs; she could not let them down, not now. This wasn't an offer; it was a presentation. They already knew she wouldn't say no. They needed her to say yes, and they all knew, herself included, that she would not disappoint them.

Her eyes skimmed over each face, finding Josephine's radiant smile, and finally, Cullen. Her gaze stopped there, stilled by the play of emotion on his face. He was not smiling, but there was the same hope on his face that she could see reflected in everyone around her. Hope ... and sadness. He _knew_ this was no choice, and she realized with a rush of tender joy that he was _concerned_ for her. No argument they presented could have convinced her more than the sudden knowledge that he knew her well enough, and cared deeply enough, to want this to happen and worry that she might not be happy with the position she was being put in.

Reassured, she looked back to Leliana. "It's unanimous?" she asked, needing some clue from the spymaster who had never seemed to wholly trust her. "You all have that much confidence in a mage?"

"Not in a mage," Leliana said softly. "In _you_."

"All these people have their lives because of you," Cassandra reminded her. "They will follow."

Amelia almost laughed at the complete lack of an answer from the Seeker. "That wasn't the question."

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "I will not lie," she admitted. "Handing this power to _anyone_ is troubling, but I have to believe this was meant to be. There would be no Inquisition without you. How we will serve, how you will lead ... that must be _yours_ to decide."

Amelia approached Leliana, laying her eyes on the sword presented to her. It was a magnificent piece of weaponry, burnished bronze and steel shining in the sun. It was also huge, far bigger than the short sword she had wielded briefly in her encounter with Corypheus. She had barely been able to lift that; _this_ sword had to be ten times the weight, and yet it rested so lightly on Leliana's hands. Would they really give her a sword she would not be able to lift? Her fingers closed over the stylized hilt, and in that moment, Amelia _chose_.

"Corypheus will never let us live in peace, he made that clear," she said, feeling a touch of mana amplifying her voice. Bracing herself, she lifted the sword ... and felt a grim smile touch her face at the lightness of it. Harritt had obviously outdone himself with his work on this piece. "He intends to be a god, to rule over us all. Corypheus must be stopped."

Cassandra thumped her chest in salute. "Wherever you lead us," she swore, and all around them was the sound of similar oaths being murmured by hundreds of voices. She turned to the crowd, addressing Josephine. "Have our people been told?"

Josephine's smile was vivid as she answered. "They have, and soon, the world will know."

"Commander," Cassandra called to Cullen over the rising clamor of voices. "Will they follow?"

Cullen grinned suddenly, turning to his muster of troops. "Inquisition, will you follow?" A roar of assent startled birds from their roosts. "Will you fight?" The mages and templars joined their voices to the chorus of agreement. "Will we triumph?" For a brief moment, the Chargers drowned out the rest of the crowd with their own cheers. "Your leader, your Herald ..." Cullen drew his sword, raising it high into the air as he turned to meet his wife's gaze with pride. "Your Inquisitor!"

The cheers shook the very foundations, loud and fulsome, as much a declaration of intent as a celebration of their new leader. Amelia drew in a breath, holding Cullen's proud, encouraging gaze a moment longer before thrusting her own blade high in answer, hearing the crowd reach even greater volume with cheers of her own name. _Their_ Inquisitor. Now _there_ was a title she was never going to escape from.

How long she stood there, she could never recall in the years to come, overwhelmed by the outpouring of confidence and support these people, _her_ people, had for her. But eventually the cheering died away, and work was renewed in the fortress as her advisors gathered her back to herself within the confines of their new war room. It was a relief to be away from those adulating voices - despite appearances, Amelia was no more comfortable with scrutiny than she had ever been. She was simply more resigned to it.

Leaning the sword against the table, she looked down at the map, rescued from Haven and still bearing the pin pricks of their work thus far across Ferelden. It was depressingly sparse on markers, but then, they had not yet begun the task laid out before them.

"So," she heard Cullen say, looking up to find him standing opposite her, his eyes still warm for her courage on the parapet outside. "This is where it begins."

"It began in the courtyard," Leliana pointed out to his right. "This is where we turn that promise into action."

Josephine let out a frustrated huff. "But what do we _do?"_ she asked the room in general. "We know nothing about this Corypheus except that he wanted your mark."

"That he claims to have created it," Amelia agreed, frowning down at her hand thoughtfully. "He wants to restore Tevinter. Is this a prelude to war with the Imperium?"

Cullen shook his head. "I get the feeling we're dealing with extremists," he said confidently. "Not the vanguard of a true invasion. Dorian might be the better person to ask, but he seems far more concerned by the actions of the Venatori cult than by the possibility of war."

"It's _Dorian_ now, is it?" Amelia couldn't help digging a little; it seemed as though sharing a bed had thawed out that little friendship more than she could have imagined, leading her to wonder just what it was they had talked about while she slept between them.

Cullen's response was predictably defensive; he had never liked having his change of mind pointed out to him. "What of it?"

As Amelia shook her head with an innocent smile, Josephine interjected. "Tevinter is not the Imperium of a thousand years ago. What Corypheus yearns to restore no longer exists." She paused before continuing. "Though they would shed no tears if the south fell to chaos, I'm certain."

"He also said he wanted to enter the Black City, that it would make him a god," Amelia pointed out. "What do we make of that?"

Leliana's tone was bleak as she answered. "He is willing to tear this world apart to reach the next. It won't matter if he's wrong."

"What if he's _not_ wrong?" Cullen asked her, speaking aloud the worry that had been on Amelia's mind for days. "What if he finds some other way into the Fade?"

"Then he gains the power he seeks, or unleashes catastrophe on us all," the spymaster replied.

"Not an option," Amelia said firmly. They'd put her in charge; she wasn't going to let them down. "What about his dragon? Could it really be an archdemon?"

"That would mean the beginning of another Blight." Leliana's frown was deeply troubled. She had suffered through one Blight already in her lifetime, and lost the jewel of her heart with the sword thrust that had ended it. She had no desire to live through another.

"We've seen no darkspawn other than Corypheus himself," Josephine was quick to reassure her friend. "Perhaps it is not an archdemon at all, but something different?"

"Whatever it is, it's dangerous." Practical man that he was, Cullen cut through the maybes to lay out the problem. "Commanding such a creature gives Corypheus an advantage we can't ignore."

"Believe me, we are _not_ ignoring it," Amelia told him. She was still having nightmares about being barely five feet from the creature's mouth. "Some practical experience fighting dragons would seem to be in order, don't you think?"

Cullen grimaced; he'd spent months telling her _not_ to attack the dragons she kept sighting, and now she had the perfect excuse to ignore him. "We'd better get an arcanist in to prepare your gear, then," he conceded with a reluctant sigh.

She flashed him a dazzling smile, abruptly turning back to business. "Someone out there must know _something_ about Corypheus," she pointed out.

"Unless they saw him on the field, most will not believe he even exists," Cullen mused in a dejected tone. "I'm not entirely sure _I_ believe what he is, and I _did_ see him."

"You were a little distracted by who else was on the field," Amelia reminded him, unsurprised to see her husband color with silent anger. _She'd_ recognized Corypheus' general, too.

"We _do_ have one advantage," Leliana declared in a triumphant tone. "We know what Corypheus intends to do next. In that strange future you experienced, Amelia, Empress Celene had been assassinated. Such a plan would have to already be in place."

"Imagine the chaos her death would cause," Josephine spoke up, horrified just by the thought. "With his army -"

"- an army he'll bolster with a massive force of demons -" Cullen interrupted.

"- Corypheus could conquer the entire south of Thedas, god or no god," the ambassador predicted in dismay.

"That is _not_ going to happen," Amelia insisted, absently granting access to the room with a sharp, _"Come!"_ as someone knocked on the door.

Leliana sighed wearily. "I'd feel better if we knew more about what we were dealing with."

"I know someone who can help with that."

Amelia turned, surprised to find Varric standing behind her. The dwarf looked exhausted, weighed down by something he had chosen to keep to himself until now. He fidgeted under their collective gaze.

"Everyone acting all inspirational jogged my memory, so I-I sent a message to an old friend," he offered innocently. "She's crossed paths with Corypheus before, and may know more about what he's doing. She can help."

Amelia eyed him suspiciously for a moment. "Have I met this old friend of yours before?"

"Uh ... once," Varric admitted. "When she got lost visiting family a couple of years back."

Behind her, she heard Cullen let out a groan, knowing he recognized the incident in question. There was only one person this "old friend" could be, and her presence at Skyhold would not go unnoticed.

"Cassandra is going to kill you," Leliana warned him in amusement.

"I figured as much," the dwarf shrugged. "Why'd you think I waited until she was busy out there?"

Torn between amusement and annoyance, Amelia rolled her eyes. Just what she needed - murder in her own ranks. "All right, Varric," she conceded, knowing she needed all the help she could get. "Introduce us. Without causing a riot."

"Just what I would have suggested," Varric agreed. "Soon as I know, I'll tell you when to expect her." He let himself out of the war room, muttering to himself about suicidal good intentions.

"Well, then," Josephine said, brittle but bright. "We stand ready to move on both these concerns."

"On your order, Inquisitor."

Perhaps it was the weight of the discussion, or perhaps it was simply the way the word sounded on Cullen's lips, but that _Inquisitor_ settled heavily on Amelia's shoulders. So much was riding on her decisions, on where _she_ decided to go next.

"Well, we can't move on either concern until we have more information," she said in frustration. "At the very least, we need to warn Empress Celene that her life is in more immediate danger than it usually is."

"I will endeavor to get a warning to her," Josephine promised seriously.

"I have sent agents to look over Therinfal Redoubt," Leliana volunteered. "Perhaps there is some clue left to us there."

"Good call." Amelia nodded, her expression pensive. "Without better intelligence, we are flapping in the wind here. We can't move until we know what's going on out there, and that is going to take time. So ..." She gestured to the map. "Someone tell me why there's a marker on Orzammar."

Two hours later, they had a plan in place, and the map was once again littered with markers denoting just where the Inquisition was going next. With no definite leads on Corypheus or the plot against the empress, Amelia had decided to go to Orzammar's aid for the time being - the last thing they needed was for the supply of untainted lyrium to dry up. Scout Harding would go on ahead to organize a team of engineers building a lift down to the mines affected by these unexpected earthquakes, and Amelia would follow with her own team after the memorial at Haven was built and dedicated. She may not have particularly liked the Marquis DuRellion, but his aim there was noble, and one she was more than happy to support. With their tasks ahead of them, Josephine was already composing her letters as she left, trailing behind Leliana's swift stride.

"Cullen ... a word."

The commander pulled up short in his own exit, letting the door close as he turned back to Amelia. She was still studying the map, one of his markers in her hand.

"We need to talk about Samson."

He stiffened, his jaw clenching just at the sound of that name on her lips. "I suppose it was too much to hope that you hadn't recognized him," he admitted ruefully. But then, she wouldn't be the woman he loved if that had passed her by without _some_ notice.

She raised her head as he came back to the map, this time standing beside her. "I don't want you to go rushing into anything without talking it through with me," she told him in a sombre tone. "His presence on the field makes this personal. He was your friend once."

"And now he is my enemy, _our_ enemy," Culled said, rather proud of himself for how calm he sounded.

"You and I both know it's not as simple as that." She sounded sad, pitying a man they had once secretly supported together after his expulsion from the Templar Order. "He is not you. You are not him. The choices he has made are not the choices you have made."

"But addiction to lyrium was his downfall," he said heavily. "Every templar has the potential to be like him. _Not_ every templar has you."

She smiled at the compliment, their heads bowed close together over the map as they spoke. "I know you have agents of your own," she said in a quiet tone. "Samson's armor looked to be fashioned of red lyrium. I'd like you to use your agents to source where that lyrium is being mined."

"And from there, perhaps we will discover where Samson is based," he murmured, his interest piqued by her suggestion. "On one condition."

Her hand trembled as he curled his fingers about hers, his marker enclosed in her palm. "And that is?"

"When we find him," he whispered to her, as though afraid of other ears hearing them, "let me come with you. Let me face him at your side."

She was silent for a long moment, watching his thumb stroke over her own as she considered his condition. She wanted to protect him from this, but knew she could not. With or without her compliance, he would seek Samson out. Far better they should do it together. "Very well," she agreed, her shoulder brushing his. "When you find it, we will go to his base together."

He raised her hand in his own, the marker still in her grasp, pressing his lips to her knuckles in a fervent kiss. She closed her eyes, leaning close to touch her forehead to his, wishing there was some way she could spare him the pain of seeing firsthand what Raleigh Samson had become. As if he knew what she was thinking and echoed it, Cullen drew the marker from her hand, easing her about until her hands rested on the solid curve of his breastplate, his arms curling about her waist. She sighed softly, content to be held, breathing in the scent of him - leather and oil and metal, overlying the unique musk that clung to his skin. She felt _safe_ in this moment, safer than she had felt since falling from the Breach.

"Cullen," she breathed, not daring to open her eyes. "Josephine asked me if we want to keep our marriage out of general circulation."

His own eyes opened, warm brown focusing on the detail of her shirt buttons as he fought not to smile too broadly. Josephine was a romantic at heart, and did not miss an opportunity to try and reconcile the married couple at the heart of the Inquisition. "She asked me the same," he confessed softly. "What did you tell her?"

She bit her lip, failing to stifle her own smile as she tilted her head back to look into his eyes. "That I had to ask you first."

He laughed, a soft huff of amusement for their identical responses to the ambassador's tactful query. "If it were my choice alone, I would tell the world that I am your husband, and what a privilege it is to be a part of your life."

"I've missed you, Cul," she whispered, warm and sincere in his arm. "You're not a secret. You're my husband; I'm your wife. Let the world know it."

"Ame ..." He breathed her name, his heart soaring, leaning in to feel her breath play over his lips. She raised herself to him, tasting him on the air as the warmth of his affection enveloped her, aching for this kiss.

"Inquisitor!"

Amelia could have sworn she heard Cullen growl at Josephine's badly-timed interruption, reluctantly breaking from his embrace to greet the Antivan in the doorway. "Yes, Josephine?"

"Ah ... forgive me, Inquisitor, but ..." Josephine flourished a parchment bearing the Trevelyan family crest toward her. "Your elder brother is coming to Skyhold. Indeed, he had already left by the time your father sent this message. He expects to be here within two weeks."

"Oh, _wonderful_." Amelia's groan was almost echoed by her husband. Lorent Trevelyan was _not_ their favorite member of her family, for a whole host of reasons. "What a shame I'll miss him."

"He has expressed his intention to wait as long as it takes to speak with you," Josephine warned. She was aware of the tensions within the Trevelyan family, and had tried to keep this very thing from happening. Unfortunately, her efforts had been for naught.

A muscle started to tick in Amelia's temple at this news, a sure sign of her rarely expressed temper blossoming within the confines of her iron control. "Then when he arrives, send him to meet me in Haven," she said coldly. "Let's see if he has the stupidity to say what I think he wants to say in the place where so many died for me."

Josephine looked impressed. "That is ... cruel, but masterful," she conceded with a slow nod. "I think it unlikely he will take such a suggestion from anyone but you, however."

"I doubt he's going to take it well at all," Amelia predicted. "Let's put it in writing for him."

She picked up the discarded marker, pressing it into Cullen's hand, a reminder and a promise that they _would_ continue this another time. For now, duty called, and the sooner Lorent could be sent packing back to the Free Marches, the better for all of them.


	12. Chapter 12

Haven was no more.

Where once the devout village had stood, guarding the approach to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, now there was only the ruined Chantry, destroyed in a cataclysm of ice and snow. For days, workers had toiled, assisted by the Inquisition, to clear the debris from the broken chapel, enduring the unrelenting winds to open a place for the promised memorial to stand. Andraste in mourning, her marble hands clasped to her heart, now stood alone on the threshold of what had once been the most secluded site of her Chantry, her downcast gaze resting on seven great stones, on which were inscribed the names of all those who had been lost, both in Haven and at the Temple itself.

At the invitation of the Marquis DuRellion, who nominally owned the land and who had insisted upon erecting the memorial, the Inquisition was present for the requiem service, represented not only by their leaders, but by dozens of soldiers and workers. With them mourned the King and Queen of Ferelden, and as many nobles as had been willing and able to make the journey, as well as hundreds of ordinary people - human, elf, and dwarf - who came to pay their last respects to the dead.

Amelia stood among her people, unashamed of the tears staining her face. This place had been her home for almost half a year; she had made good friends among Haven's people, only to lose them to the malice of an evil that had come looking for her. Their kindness to her in the wake of the tragedy that only she had survived would never be forgotten. Though they had suspected her at first, they had come to embrace her, protecting her against those who still wanted her dead. And she had failed to protect them in return. The mere fact of her existence had brought death to their door, and there was nothing she could have done to prevent it. She mourned them all - the Divine and all those who had died at the Conclave, including so many of her own flesh and blood; and the people of Haven and the Inquisition, whose blood she would see repaid by Corypheus a hundred times over if she could. As the chant for the departed rose from every throat, her hand found Cullen's, needing his strength to keep her voice from faltering. His gloved fingers gripped her own, bracing her against the grief that tried to mute her voice, supporting her as she had once supported him.

Then the service was over. The Ferelden nobles, following their monarchs, moved to study the inscribed names, some lighting candles, some bowing their heads in prayer. Some were only there for the political gain of being _seen_ to mourn, Amelia knew. She was aware of the curious eyes on her, of her name spoken in hushed whispers as people, both common and noble alike, took the opportunity to look upon the Herald of Andraste as she offered up her own prayers for the departed.

"Lady Montilyet; Inquisitor." The rounded Orlesian tone brought her out of her thoughts as the Marquis DuRellion approached them, inclining his head to Leliana and Cullen as well. "Thank you for attending. The sight of the Inquisition here is comforting to my heart."

"Haven sheltered us for many months, marquis," Josephine reminded him in a gentle tone. "It is only right that we should pay tribute to those who were lost here."

"Indeed," DuRellion agreed. Though his face was hidden behind the Orlesian vanity of a mask, his own grief was palpable in his demeanor. "But to see so many, and the Inquisitor herself ... it is heartening. I regret my manner at our last meeting. Had I known what would befall, I ... I would have been more forgiving."

"There is little anyone could have done to prevent it, marquis," Amelia assured him in a sad tone. "What you have done to honor them all ... it is truly wonderful. I only wish more of them could have lived to see it."

"You are too kind, my lady." The marquis bowed to her. "What I have done is not enough, but I will try harder."

"Words I never thought I'd hear an Orlesian say," a Ferelden voice interjected.

They turned together, to find King Alistair had joined their quiet grouping. He seemed as weary of all this death as Amelia felt, hardened by his years on the throne. He inclined his head to each of them as they bowed to him, his gaze pausing briefly on the hand of the Inquisitor still wrapped in her commander's grasp.

"Forgive me, marquis," he apologized to DuRellion. "My wife's prejudices have started to rub off on me."

"There is no offense, your majesty," the marquis assured him. "Orlais and Ferelden will, I fear, never be the closest of friend."

"But I've known Orlesians I was proud to call my friend," the king told him mildly. "I know you're not _all_ the monsters of Ferelden myth. Hello, Leliana." The bright, fond smile that lit up his handsome face was matched by the warmth of Leliana's own smile as he moved to embrace her, showing them a side of their spymaster few could touch. "Still doing the Maker's will?"

The redhead laughed softly. "I believe I am, Alistair, yes," she answered familiarly, and Amelia suddenly remembered that King Alistair had been another companion of the Hero of Ferelden, the second Grey Warden in the battle that had ended the Blight almost before it began. "I am not the chosen one, this time."

"Ah, yes, that would be ..." The king turned his eyes to Amelia. "Inquisitor. A pleasure to meet you again, though we seem to be continually meeting in regrettable circumstances."

"Your majesty." Amelia bowed her head to him, quietly resenting the way the presence of his king made Cullen release her hand and step into the background. "I trust the arl is safely returned to Redcliffe?"

"Yes, and full of complaints about it," Alistair informed her rather merrily. "I understand you have brokered a peace between mages and templars."

"Not exactly, your majesty, but they haven't tried to kill each other within our ranks for at least two weeks," she replied, almost pleased when he chuckled at her description. "Thank you for coming here today. Your people clearly appreciate your presence."

The king's expression grew sombre. "No one deserves to die forgotten," he said simply. "So long as these stones stand, these people's names will always be remembered. And .. my condolences, Inquisitor. I understand that several of those lost at the Temple were known to you."

She hesitated, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "My family, your majesty," she told him, her voice thick with the grief she had not yet let go of. "Two uncles, and all but one of my siblings."

He winced, clearly sorry to have brought it up. "You have my sympathies," he said gently. "It is a terrible thing, to lose so much."

"It might have been better if she had been lost with them." _That_ was a Marcher voice, and Amelia knew exactly who it belonged to.

Without bothering to turn, she forced a strained smile onto her face. "My brother, Lorent Trevelyan, heir to the Bann of Ostwick," she introduced the man who had joined them uninvited. Side by side, there was no mistaking the family resemblance. "Lorent ... His majesty, King Alistair of Ferelden; Lady Josephine Montilyet; Sister Leliana; and I'm sure you remember Commander Cullen Rutherford."

Lorent bowed low, his dark hair disheveled by the breeze. He looked every inch the young noble lord, but Amelia knew him too well to think that his looks would ever reflect the man that had formed beneath them. "Your majesty, please forgive my interruption," he apologized smoothly. "My Lady Montilyet; Lady Leliana." He flickered a glance in Cullen's direction, his manner noticeably cooler toward the man. "Rutherford."

Cullen's hand clenched about the hilt of his sword. "Trevelyan."

Leliana and Josephine exchanged somewhat alarmed looks; evidently there was more history between Cullen and his wife's family than they had been made aware of. Bracing herself inwardly for what she knew had to be coming, Amelia turned to the king.

"Forgive me, your majesty. If you would excuse me?" she asked politely. "It has been a long time since I and my brother were together."

"Of course." But Alistair was frowning, unsettled by the lack of warmth between the siblings. He knew a little of how that went himself, saddened to note that someone who needed family to support her should be so let down by them.

As Amelia stepped away, Cullen turned to follow, stilled by her touch on his arm. "I'll be fine," she promised him softly. "Let it be."

He held her gaze for a long moment, wanting to believe that was true, but knowing her relationship with her elder brother was fractious, at best. "I won't let you out of my sight," he promised her in return, reassured a little by her nod of assent.

She walked away from the group, her big brother endeavoring to stay one step ahead of her. Appearances meant everything to Lorent, especially when it came to his siblings. He had to give the _appearance_ , at least, of being in command over them. _He_ chose where they stopped, a place that made Amelia's heartbeat quicken with remembered fear. _Here_ was the remains of the trebuchet; _there_ was the snapped end of her broken staff. She was standing on the very spot where Corypheus and his dragon had cornered her, not three weeks before.

"So your dog has become a dog _lord_ , has he?" Lorent began, seemingly determined to test her temper from the outset. "Does he sit on command, or is that still you?"

"What do you want, Lorent?" she snapped at him, careful to keep her voice down and her expression blank. There were too many eyes peering curiously at them to risk eavesdroppers hearing just _how_ strained things were between the siblings. For all she knew, several hundred of the people here might just decide to beat him to death for the way he spoke to her.

"Why, to see my blaspheming, heretical baby sister, of course," he countered, his tone almost pleasant. "Stories of your exploits have spread even to the Free Marches."

"I'm sure they have," she agreed, though she doubted he had paid attention to any tale that was complimentary toward her. "Why don't you try being honest for once? It's only truth, Lorent. You won't choke on it."

His eyes, as golden as Cullen's but with all the warmth of a winter moon rise, bore into her, harsh and unloving. "Show it to me."

There was no need to ask what _it_ was. Amelia sighed with weary resignation, turning her left hand to undo the button of her glove. The icy wind stung her warm flesh as she peeled the fitted leather free, showing her brother the long scar that stood proud from her palm, glowing with the eerie, glittering green light of the Fade. Lorent grasped her wrist, raising her hand uncomfortably high to inspect the Anchor. He pressed a fingertip to it, and she hissed, wrenching her hand back to herself with a pained frown.

"It hurts you?" he asked in disbelief, for a moment showing actual concern for the state she had found herself in.

"All the bloody time," she informed him succinctly, pulling her glove back into place. "Worse when I'm near a rift."

"And that gives you the power to close these tears in the Veil, does it?" he questioned her further. "Some kind of magic?"

She had to fight hard not to roll her eyes at him. "Well, _obviously_ it was some kind of magic that opened the Breach in the sky," she told him impatiently. "And in case it slipped your notice, the Breach is sealed. _We_ did that, together - mages and templars working in harmony, channeling their power into me so that I could heal the Veil. Before you repeat the tired rumors you have no doubt been delighted with, I can tell you plainly that the explosion was not my doing. We know _exactly_ who is responsible, because he tried to kill me that same night, on this very spot. So don't you _dare_ try to pin the Temple on me, Lorent Trevelyan. There's no profit for you to gain from anything here."

Lorent glared at her, his argument seemingly swept away by her swift, unprovoked defense of herself and her people. "And who, pray, is this evil one?"

"He calls himself Corypheus," she said, proud of how calm she sounded, saying that name in this place. _Exalt the will that is Corypheus._ Rattled by how difficult it was to set those memories aside, her voice was harsh as she added, "Ring any bells?"

"Should it?" he shot back at her, apparently unaware that their noticeably icy exchange was garnering a good deal of attention from those men and women who lingered before the memorial.

"I'd be horrified if it did," she informed her brother coolly. And to be fair, she had never suspected he might be involved at all. He was too wrapped up in his small political machinations to try and be a part of anything outside Ostwick. "So why _are_ you here, Lorent? We both know this isn't a social call."

"A matter of formality, little sister," he answered, and she could guess now his purpose. After years of scheming, he had finally convinced their father to act. "The removal of the stain on our family's honor, in the wake of the losses we have suffered and the humiliation brought down on our name by your actions." He reached into his coat, handing her a rolled parchment sealed with the Trevelyan family crest.

She took it into her grasp, not needing to break that seal to know what was contained within. "So you finally did it," she said softly. "And you didn't have to kill _any_ of us, in the end."

"No, I didn't," he agreed, smug triumph written all over his face. "Though the plans _were_ in place. I should thank you, Amelia. You took care of all my rivals for me."

The words were a blow she had not expected, flinching back as though he had struck her. "They were my _kin_ ," she reminded him fiercely, her sight blurring as tears forced themselves into her eyes. "My brothers, my sister, my uncles. My _blood_. I'm not the one who wanted them dead, who wanted us all dead. You must be so _proud_ to profit from wholesale murder. You might as well be an ally of Corypheus."

He blanched, his face coloring with ugly anger as he snatched at her wrist, dragging her close over the snow with a painful wrench. "Now you listen to me, you stupid little -"

But he didn't get any further, for in the moment he pulled her to him, a naked blade touched his throat. Amelia started in surprise; she hadn't even noticed Cassandra approaching them, and it seemed Lorent had not, either. Nor was the Seeker the only one coming to her aid. Within moments of the sword being unsheathed, Lorent Trevelyan found himself faced with the leadership of the Inquisition, each one silently daring him to go any further than he already had.

"You will release the Inquisitor, and step back." Cassandra's tone was bleak. Here in this place, surrounded by the reminder of their failure, she was in no mood to stand by and watch her friend abused by the last brother she had left.

Lorent did as the Seeker commanded, releasing his punishing grip on Amelia's wrist and taking a hasty step back from the group now arrayed against him. His eyes traveled over them, clearly shocked by the protection that now gathered about his sister, protection she had not asked for and yet was given without conditions. Then something else fell into place in his mind, his eyes widening as he stared at the mage who shared his blood. "Inquisitor?"

Shaken, Amelia stood tall among her advisors, grateful for their presence at her back. "Hadn't you heard?" she asked, her tone snide as she forced herself not to snarl at her brother. "You really should stay more up to date, Lorent. You're liable to make a serious misstep one of these days."

"What's all this?" The King of Ferelden ambled over to the group, accompanied by several of his own guards. He was unable to resist the prospect of trouble, even when his queen was impatient to leave. Life had, after all, become rather sedentary since he was crowned.

"A formality, your majesty," Amelia heard herself say, holding Lorent's furiously impotent gaze as she handed Josephine the sealed parchment. "One I would be grateful to have you witness. Josephine, if you would."

There was silence for a moment as the ambassador broke open the seal, her voice strong as she read aloud the few lines written there. " _Be it known that I, Amadus Trevelyan, twenty-third Bann of Ostwick, do formerly renounce and disown the second daughter of my blood, the mage Amelia, withdrawing from her all rights to name, house, and kin._ And it has been witnessed and signed by two Revered Mothers."

 _"What?!"_ The word was an explosion from Cassandra's lips. For a moment, Lorent's life quite literally danced on a blade's edge. "How dare you? This woman has done more for Thedas than you could ever dream to, you impotent excuse for a man!"

"Cassandra." Amelia laid her hand on her friend's arm, gently guiding the blade away from her brother's throat. "It's all right." Hardening her gaze, she turned her eyes back to Lorent. "That document isn't worth the parchment it is written on," she informed him sternly. "I haven't been a Trevelyan for years now. I was never welcome as one to begin with. I am a Rutherford, and far prouder to bear that name than any that came before it. So ... Ambassador Montilyet, strike House Trevelyan from the Inquisition's list of associates and allies. They have made their position _very_ clear, and I will not waste my time on them."

"As you say, Inquisitor," Josephine agreed, her voice cold as she rolled the parchment once more, setting fire to it from the candle balanced on her writing board.

"You've done what you came to do, Lorent," Amelia told the heir of House Trevelyan. "I'd advise you leave. The Inquisition renounces _you_. You will have no aid and no influence with us."

"An excellent idea."

Startled, Amelia tore her gaze from Lorent, surprised to find that Queen Anora had apparently grown bored with waiting and had decided to join them herself. The queen stood beside her husband, her expression filled with distaste. "And since, by virtue of your marriage, Inquisitor, you are a subject of Ferelden, I feel we should aid in removing this dross from your sight."

"Yes," King Alistair agreed grimly. He'd seen and heard enough of this farce to understand what had been happening under his nose. "Lorent Trevelyan, you are no longer welcome within our borders. Ferelden supports the Inquisition, _and_ the Inquisitor. Remove yourself across the nearest boundary, and do not return without a written invitation."

"What?" Lorent's reaction was not best thought out. He simply exploded with rage, advancing on Amelia to lay the blame for his disgrace firmly at her feet, heedless of her companions. "You can't do this to me. I am the heir to Ostwick, and _you_ are nothing but a filthy mage, a jumped-up, heretical -"

Again, he didn't finish. This time, however, his abrupt ending had nothing to do with a sword, and everything to do with the gloved fist that struck his face hard enough to draw blood from his lip. Cullen shook out his hand as the Trevelyan staggered, the fury in his eyes begging for another opportunity to strike the man who had caused his wife enough pain to last a lifetime. Arrogant Lorent might be, but he was no idiot. Outnumbered and outsmarted by his sister and her unexpected allies, he turned on his heel with a silent snarl, pressing one hand to his bleeding lip as he stalked to where his own men awaited him.

"Captain," King Alistair said thoughtfully to his own escort. "Be a good fellow and make sure he doesn't get lost on the way to Orlais, would you?"

"At once, your majesty."

As the captain marched off to give his orders, Queen Anora turned her pale eyes to Amelia, who was more than a little shocked by everything that had just happened. "Are you all right, Lady Rutherford?"

Rousing herself, Amelia looked around at the concerned faces watching her, knowing the encounter had likely unsettled her friends far more than it had her. "No, your majesty," she answered Anora with absolute honesty. "But I will be. And, with respect, I no longer bear a noble title. What I have is enough."

"Nonsense," Alistair objected impulsively. "Cullen, take a knee, would you? And if I might borrow your sword, Lady Pentaghast?"

The look Cullen sent Amelia was a little wild around the edges, but he could hardly refuse his king, even if that king didn't seem to have thought this through entirely. Cassandra gave up her sword to that same king without hesitation, her eyes bright with approval as she stepped back. Alistair hefted the blade thoughtfully, gesturing for Cullen to do as he was told and kneel, half an ear on something Anora was whispering to him. He nodded once in answer to her, and turned his attention on the man kneeling in the snow before him.

"By the power, etc, etc, noble and wise, etc, I dub thee Ser Cullen Rutherford, a Knight of Ferelden, blah, blah, blah, services to the crown, blah, blah, raised to the ranks of the nobility," he declared. It was just as well Cullen was always armored; the king bounced the blade off his shoulders a little _too_ enthusiastically. "We'll wrap that up in formal speech, announce it in Denerim, and send your letters of patent to you at Skyhold. Drop by for a visit sometime, and you can argue with Eamon about the land he'll insist on giving you." He handed the sword back to Cassandra, flashing a bright smile to the group witnessing. "There you are, dear lady. Oh, get up, Cullen, you'll rust your knees down there."

Rendered speechless by the informal formality just handed out by the monarchs of Ferelden, Amelia only just remembered to bow as King Alistair and Queen Anora took their leave, retracing their steps across the packed snow to where their carriage awaited. "What just happened?" she eventually managed to ask, her wide-eyed gaze sweeping her friends as Cassandra helped an equally shaken Cullen back onto his feet.

Leliana laughed suddenly. "Alistair Theirin just pulled off the political coup of the year," she answered in amusement. "Wouldn't you say, Josie?"

Josephine was giggling, trying to hide her smile behind her ever-present quill. "It was genius," she confirmed with no small amount of glee. "With one action, he has insulted both Orlais and the Free Marches for their reticence, and checked Chantry influence in his domain by aligning Ferelden with the Inquisition. I could not have done it better myself."

Cullen, on the other hand, looked dazed. "I've been knighted," he said in a wondering tone, looking down at Amelia in disbelief. "I'm a Knight of Ferelden." It didn't seem to matter just yet that his knighthood had only been bestowed because the king and queen seemed to think his wife deserved to retain a noble title, though she was sure it would occur to him in time.

"Now you _have_ to write to your sister," she told him mildly. Her hand caught his, running her fingers over the knuckles that had split Lorent's lip before he could dig his own grave with thoughtless insults. "Thank you."

Capturing her hand between both his own, Cullen flashed her a roguish grin that came very close to melting something secret inside her. "I've been wanting to shut that putrescence up for years," he confessed, and to her surprise, she laughed, shaking her head as she leaned into him.

But the laughter didn't stop. It went on and on, her giggles growing more and more hysterical, until she was sobbing in his arms, pouring out all the fear and pain and grief she had been holding inside for too long. She had tried to push on, to ignore the ache in her chest at every death, every set back, every nightmare. She had told herself she had to be strong, that everyone was counting on her, but no one could withstand all she had been through in the past months without breaking a little. Her father's disowning of her and Lorent's naked hostility had simply been the straw that broke the bronto's back. Yet while they may have thought they were stripping her of the only support she could count on, she knew they were wrong. Her _family_ was diverse and strong, gathered together from all walks of life, all corners of Thedas, and they had _chosen_ her. She did not need the Trevelyans. She had the Inquisition.

Slowly, as the storm of her tears passed, she became aware of eyes watching her - the eyes of the Ferelden nobility and commons, the eyes of the Inquisition. And just as she began to tense, to berate herself for showing such weakness, Cullen spoke softly into her ear. "There's no shame in being human, Ame. Even Andraste wept for what she had lost in her journey."

Reassured, she raised her head, pulling them both up from their knees. She wiped the tears from her face, turning to meet the Inquisition without shame. No more looking back. The past had given her little but pain, and yet it had brought her here, to this place and time, to these people she loved as dearly as she had loved her long-dead mother. It was time to reach out and shape the future, before other hands twisted it beyond repair. From this moment, she was Amelia Rutherford, mage, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor. Wife, cousin, friend. Guide and protector. And that wasn't so lonely, after all.


	13. Chapter 13

Somehow, summer had crept up on them. In the months since Amelia had left Skyhold to descend into the cold depths of the Deep Roads and beyond, the weather had turned. Even rainy Ferelden's roads, until now little more than slightly safer bogs to travel on, had dried out, making the going back from the now-safe lyrium mines far easier on the party. Trapped underground for a full two weeks, the sun was a welcome companion as they wound their way into the Frostbacks, welcoming the chilly breeze up there that countered the increasingly uncomfortable heat that beat down on them.

Indeed, by the time they rode through Skyhold's great gates, Amelia was acutely uncomfortable. Sweat ran down her back beneath the cling of her armor; the Anchor on her hand stung at the salt slick that had gathered within her gloves. Strands of dark hair burnished red by the sun escaped from the very practical knot at her nape to cling to her flushed face and neck. She was certain she looked a fright, but there was no mistaking the welcome in the cheer that rose from the Inquisition as she came home.

Despite her discomfort, she was smiling as she swung down from her horse, patting the dusty neck with a fond hand before handing the reins to Master Dennet himself. In her absence, Skyhold had been restored, on the outside at least. The fallen walls had been raised and rebuilt; merchants had set up stalls around the newly completed stables; the surgeon's tents had been cut by half. Glancing up at the main hall, she caught sight of Josephine waving down at her, raising her own hand to wave back, knowing she would have to go to the war room before she could even consider getting a bath. Elin met her at the door to the main hall, insisting on taking her staff, pack, and armor before she allowed Amelia to continue on, and despite herself, Amelia was grateful to be bullied into divesting herself of her heavy outer layer.

As she passed into the hall proper, impressed by the sheer amount of work that had been done in here, in spite of the scaffolding still standing, Varric caught her eye, gesturing for her to join him. "How did you like my ancestral home?" he asked with a smiling grimace.

"Cold, damp, and very dark," she answered easily, trying to avoid the blast of warmth rising from the hearth beside him. "How can you stand that heat?"

"I'm not the one buttoned up to the chin," he pointed out, and he certainly wasn't. His chest hair was very much on display. "Heard from a not so little bird the other day."

"Oh?" Her brows rose curiously. "That took a while, didn't it?"

Varric grimaced. "Took a while to track her down," he admitted, not entirely happy about it himself. "She's in the Anderfels, but she'll be here in a month or so."

Amelia frowned, glancing up as Cullen and Leliana emerged from the door beside them. "Let's hope we have other leads, then," she said, nodding to her dwarven friend. "See you later, Varric."

"Wicked Grace, tavern," he called after her as she joined her commander and spymaster.

"What tavern?" she asked, falling into step between the pair.

"Sera and the Iron Bull pushed for an informal meeting place," Leliana informed her with a surprising flicker of a smile. "I believe they are calling it The Herald's Rest."

"Maker's breath," was Amelia's response, earning a chuckle from Cullen as he held the door open for them to step into Josephine's office. "Couldn't they think of a better name?"

"For a while, it was The Lady's Hand, and then The Inquisitor Imbibes," Cullen pointed out with a faint grin. "The Herald's Rest _is_ a better name."

"Everyone's been so busy," she commented, brightening as their ambassador rose from her desk to join them.

"And we have much to report," Josephine assured her confidently. "Welcome home, Inquisitor."

"Well, that's encouraging. Thank you, Josie." Amelia nodded, passing first through the doors to their war room. "We don't need to worry about the lyrium supply, anyway. I'm still not entirely sure what happened down there, but I _am_ confident that the situation is stable."

"King Harrowmont has declared Orzammar's support for the Inquisition in light of our efforts in the Deep Roads," Josephine told her, evidently pleased with this progress. "All ties have been cut with House Trevelyan, as you requested - in response, both Kirkwall _and_ Starkhaven have made overtures of alliance to us. We have also been solicited for aid in determining just who of the three candidates will succeed in Lydes."

"People are _asking_ for our help now?" Amelia was surprised; she hadn't expected the Inquisition to be accepted so quickly.

"Our presence is felt across Orlais and Ferelden," Cullen remarked. "An organization seeking order, not power, is an enticing prospect to many."

"All right." Rolling up her sleeves, Amelia turned her attention to the map. "Bring me up to speed."

Many decisions had been made in her absence, most of which she agreed with, but her true interest lay in the shared content of Cullen and Leliana's reports. A man named Fairbanks had reached out to them, promising information on their enemy, but would give it only to the Herald of Andraste in person. Leliana's people had determined that he could be trusted, but what made Amelia's mind up was that this Fairbanks was based in the Emerald Graves, a place Cullen's agents had determined was being used to ship red lyrium.

"Send Harding and her team to set up a base camp and make contact," she ordered; such things were becoming easier for her to do as time went on. "I'll follow in a couple of days. While I'm in Orlais, I'll take a look at the Exalted Plains as well. The empress might be more inclined to deal with us if we do something about these reported armies of undead. Have we made any progress in making contact with her?"

"Sadly, no," Josephine confessed. "The situation is so dangerously unstable that it is proving impossible to reach her. I have, however, secured us an invitation through Grand Duke Gaspard to the peace talks, to be held at a grand masquerade in the Winter Palace at Satinalia."

"Josie, that's six months away," Amelia protested. "The assassin could strike at any time."

"It is the best I can do, Inquisitor," the ambassador apologized. "The Game does not offer much room for negotiation."

"There is reason to believe that Celene has taken steps for her own protection," Leliana offered. "A new magical advisor, who has already unmasked one Venatori plot in the imperial staff."

"That could be a feint," Cullen pointed out in concern. "Expose a disposable ally in order to get close to the target."

"I have placed agents on Celene's staff," Leliana told him. "If this mage is a plant, we will know of it."

"That's about all we can do, I suppose," Amelia conceded in a thoughtful tone. "Our visitor isn't expected for another month or so - it seems she has a long way to travel."

"We have enough to be getting on with in the meantime," Cullen assured her, a curious glimmer in his eyes as he considered her. "A rather curious mage has taken up residence with us, however. She is Your Trainer, apparently."

"Another mage?"

"I believe she has come to Skyhold in answer to _your_ request, Amelia," Josephine offered by way of explanation. "You spoke with Grand Enchanter Fiona about further training?"

"Oh, of course!" Amelia nodded in understanding. "Fiona mentioned that the Mages' Collective had sent a group to study the rifts. I asked her to invite some of them here to teach me more about the Anchor. If there's a way to manipulate it, I should know how it's done."

"A reasonable precaution," Leliana approved reluctantly. "Please inform us before you issue invitation to Skyhold in future."

"The way you inform me?" Amelia asked rather pointedly. Leliana had the grace to concede that point with a nod. "Has the arcanist arrived yet?"

"She has," the spymaster told her. "Harritt was not pleased with the way she claimed half of the Undercroft, but they appear to have reached an agreement. She is most eager to meet you."

"I'm sure she is." Amelia smiled wearily, one hand absently scratching an itch beneath the heavy knot of her hair. "But everyone is going to have to wait until I find somewhere to have a bath."

"Speaking of which ..." Josephine's smile was suddenly more than a little mischievous. "Commander, why don't you escort the Inquisitor to her quarters?"

"I have quarters now?" That was a surprise - Amelia had been expecting to bunk in the armory with Cassandra again. "You _have_ been busy, haven't you?"

"We thought you might appreciate a little privacy," Cullen said gently. "Somewhere you are not as easy to find as in the armory. With a bed."

"I'm sold," she answered immediately. "Two months of bedrolls is plenty for me."

"I thought that might be the case," he chuckled, moving around the table to join her. "Shall we?"

He lead her back through Josephine's office and out into the main hall, turning toward the dais and the door that stood to the left of it. Amelia frowned curiously as they passed through.

"I thought Josephine was quartered through here," she commented in a mild tone.

Cullen glanced down at her, gesturing toward another door even as he lead the way to stairs that had been in crumbling ruins before she left. "She is, but her quarters are on this floor," he told her. "Once the stairs were repaired, we found that the floors in the tower are actually structurally sound. It is, admittedly, a bit of a climb, but I - _we_ \- thought you would appreciate what is at the top."

"How much of this was your idea?" she asked him, fairly sure Josephine had been eyeing the rooms that overlooked the main hall as suitable for the Inquisitor. No doubt Vivienne had already taken up residence in them by now.

"I _may_ have suggested that you enjoy privacy from time to time," he admitted carefully. "And that privacy would be in short supply if your quarters were too easily accessible."

"Just _my_ quarters?" She studied his profile as they reached the first landing. He was so ... _careful_ around her these days, almost as though he were afraid to express a desire to take up her time.

Cullen seemed to hesitate, that nervous hand of his rubbing the back of his neck as they climbed. "I didn't want to presume ... that is, we haven't discussed our ..." he let out a sharp breath, frustrated by his own inability to complete a sentence. "Maker's breath ... you were very clear, in Haven. It is for you to decide, Amelia."

She smiled gently, recalling herself how clear she had been. But she had meant it, when she had said she missed him. She just didn't know how to broach the subject, and now it was here before her, she stumbled. "I-I don't think I'm ... well, that _we_ ... Andraste's arse, now _I_ can't speak," she complained, earning a wry chuckle from the man at her side. She reached out, drawing him to a halt on the third landing, and plunged into what she wanted to say. "I miss waking up beside you," she told him, in a voice that felt breathless from where she heard it. "But I'm not, I'm not ready to ... to be intimate again, not yet. And, and you probably don't want to hear that but -"

His fingertip touched her lips, stilling the nervous words spilling forth. "I don't think we're ready yet, either," he agreed, his own voice soft as he held her gaze with gentle eyes. His hand stroked tenderly over her flushed cheek. "But I miss sleeping beside you, too."

"Really?" Amelia should have felt some embarrassment at how eagerly she then presented her idea, but she had never been embarrassed around Cullen. He had the uncanny ability to be embarrassed enough for the both of them when the occasion called for it. "Then ... I know you'll have quarters closer to the ground, easier for your men to reach you, but ... when I'm here, would-would you consider sleeping beside me again?"

His eyes darkened, the desire she knew well banked behind the warmth of his gaze flaring briefly - just enough to send a flutter of something familiar and secret and tender spiraling through her frame. "It would ... I would be honored, Ame," he murmured, his expression reflecting her relief as a bright smile blossomed on her face. "Tonight?"

She nodded firmly. "Tonight. I'll come looking for you if you're not here by midnight."

"You know me so well," he drawled in amusement, turning to continue on their way. One hand pushed open a heavy door, beyond which was a last flight of steps. "I must confess, I'm glad I won the argument about the bed now. After you, Inquisitor."

"There was an argument about a bed?" she asked through a cheerful smile, mounting the steps ahead of him.

"You should have seen the Orlesian confection they wanted to buy," he answered easily. "Bad enough they tricked me into shopping, I wasn't wasting coin on _that_."

She laughed, looking over her shoulder at him. "Snob," she teased, grinning as he grimaced lightly back at her.

"Knight and Commander, if you don't mind, _Inquisitor_."

"As ser commands." She giggled at the second grimace he gave her, but the laughter died on her lips as she finally reached the top of the stairs and stood, for the first time, in _her_ quarters.

A large, open room, filled with sunlight that played through stained windows on three walls. Two of those walls held access to balconies that overlooked both Skyhold itself, and the wide plateau that lead up to the fortress, offering stunning views of the Frostbacks all around. A fire blazed in the hearth, where comfortable seats had been set; a small library dominated one corner, bookshelves group around a desk equipped with pens and ink, and a smaller map of Thedas. Deep Orlesian silk rugs covered the stone floor, yet the furniture was all of the style of her home, the Free Marches, from the dresser to the four-posted bed that was laid with bright linens and blankets. Her armor and staff decorated a stand in the dappled sunlight, and through a door was a small bathing chamber, complete with marble bath.

"This ... all this is for me?" she asked, stunned delight coloring her cheeks as she tore her gaze from her surroundings to level her astonishment on Cullen, who was watching her with a slightly anxious smile.

"You didn't think we'd leave you in the armory forever, did you?" he countered, pleased with her wide-eyed delight in the rooms they had prepared for her. "Everyone had opinions about what you would like."

"It's wonderful," she breathed, amazed by the sheer luxury around her. "Truly, it's ... I don't know what to say. Thank you seems so trite."

He laughed at her speechlessness. "Take your bath," he suggested fondly. "Enjoy your privacy. Your rooms will always be here, Ame. And you deserve a space where you can relax fully, without interruptions."

As he spoke, a slow smile broke over her face. "I think I will," she agreed warmly. "I can see I'm going to have to explore Skyhold all over again."

"Tomorrow," he told her, one hand gently cupping her cheek. "You have plenty of time." His own smile deepened as her cheek tilted into his touch, both of them enjoying the intimacy of that caress perhaps more than either wanted to admit. "I have duties to attend to, or I might be tempted to hide away with you all day."

"The way we used to," she murmured, touched that he seemed to recall those evenings in Kirkwall as fondly as she did.

"Milady?"

Startled, Amelia turned toward the familiar voice, missing Cullen's hand on her cheek even as her smile brightened for the interrupter. "Yes, Elin?"

The elf girl was beaming as she moved away from the stairs. "Isn't it lovely, milady? And it's all yours!"

"Elin has been instrumental in putting all this together," Cullen told Amelia, an indulgent smile on his face for the young servant who had devoted everything she had to the woman he loved. "There's nothing in this room she did not approve of."

"And it's all so perfectly presented," Amelia praised her elven friend. "You're a treasure, Elin."

"You're my lady, milady," was the pleased response. "Nothing but the best will do for you."

"And that includes you," Cullen told the girl, turning to Amelia to add, "Elin is quartered two floors down, above Josephine, who has designated her your official assistant."

Blushing, Elin's grin looked in danger of eating her own nose for a moment there. "By your leave, commander, the Inquisitor needs to settle in."

"Indeed she does, Elin." He made Elin's blush that much darker by bowing to her, smiling a familiar, barely-there smile as he inclined his head to Amelia. "Inquisitor."

She bit down on her own smile, returning his nod with her own. "Commander. By midnight, don't forget."

"Dragons could not prevent me," he replied, stepping away to jog down the stairs and out through the door, leaving Amelia to the tender mercies of an elven girl determined to pamper her into insensibility.

Despite Elin's best effort, however, the sun was still shining when Amelia emerged into the main hall again, clean and refreshed, dressed in fresh clothing that smelled of elfroot, rather than mud. She hadn't been joking when she'd said she would have to explore Skyhold all over again; there had been many changes since she had left for the Deep Roads. Fortified by her bath, she let her feet wander as yet unfamiliar paths, discovering all those new places as she went. But she found herself, as she knew she would, up on the battlements, gazing down at the camps that littered the plateau. The Inquisition's army was down there, still drilling, still keeping the peace between the mages and templars who shared their tents; still protecting the many pilgrims and refugees who refused to leave the shadow of the Inquisition. Who refused to leave _her_. She couldn't really blame them, yet they were so vulnerable down there, so exposed. Just as Haven had been.

"We'll be able to see Corypheus coming from miles away," a gruff voice spoke from behind her, and she jumped, turning to find Blackwall taking up a lean on the rampart to her left. He offered her a smile as she laughed at her own surprise. "Apologies, my lady. Didn't mean to startle you."

"When are you going to start calling me by name, Blackwall?" she asked a little helplessly. This was one man who would forever be far more capable than she could ever hope to be.

"Some day, my lady, perhaps," he conceded, the wry quirk of his lips almost concealed by his luxuriant beard. "I've no right to your name, unlike others."

"You have every right when I ask you to use it," she pointed out, but he only shook his head.

"In another life, perhaps," was all he would say on the matter. "Plans laid for our next move, aye? The scouts left an hour ago. Large party, too."

"You're fishing," Amelia accused, her tone warm for her friend. She'd always felt safe in Blackwall's company, probably because he was a Grey Warden.

"Aye, I am," he agreed easily. "Have I hooked an answer, that's the question."

"I'll be leaving in a couple of days," she told him. "The Emerald Graves promise to yield some information that we need, and I should probably take a look at the situation on the Exalted Plains."

"And will you be needing a Warden?" he asked, his tone level.

"I will," she assured him. "Varric's staying here again, so it'll be Sera again."

"A tent to myself up top," Blackwall marveled in a teasing tone. "Don't know whether to be pleased or disappointed."

"Oh, I'd be pleased," she chuckled lightly. "Sera's a hugger."

"You'll not get cold," he predicted, almost cheerful for a brief moment. "Heading off to tell her?"

"I should give her a couple of days' notice, shouldn't I?" she agreed. Others might have taken his words to mean that he was weary of their company, but she knew better by now. He wouldn't expect her to linger until she had everything in place for the upcoming journey, just as he would were he in her place.

With a smile, she pushed away from the wall, following her feet to the steps that lead down into the upper courtyard, but her progress to the tavern where Sera had commandeered a room for herself was checked by the sight of Cassandra, setting quietly beside the practice dummies, her whole attention riveted on a book in her hands. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Adjusting her course, she approached the Seeker from behind.

"Good book?"

To Amelia's everlasting delight, Cassandra leapt up with an electrified yell, deliberately dropping the book into the grass behind her as she turned to face the mage. "I ... don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes." Amelia nodded sagely in agreement. "Because I suddenly went _blind_."

"Oh ... that." The Seeker fidgeted awkwardly. "Just ... reports. From Commander Cullen."

She was a terrible liar, but Amelia was confident enough in their friendship to tease her. "So what do you think of his plan for our work in the Emerald Graves?"

Cassandra's expression went blank. "The ... Oh! I believe it to be well thought out," she attempted to brazen out her lie. "We will take the position with little trouble."

"Really? Because I thought we were intercepting caravans," Amelia answered, watching her friend's eyes narrow at the knowledge she had been caught out. "You're an excellent liar, Cassandra."

Cassandra let out an annoyed sigh. "It's of no interest to you, I'm certain." When Amelia's smile didn't falter, she rolled her eyes, bending to scoop the volume up from the grass. "It's a book."

"I can see that," Amelia assured her, her smile growing more fondly teasing with each passing minute.

"It's ... one of Varric's tales," Cassandra confessed reluctantly. " _The Gallows Bride_. The latest chapter."

As soon as she uttered the title, the smile dropped from Amelia's face, replaced by an almost panicked grimace. "The latest chapter," she repeated heavily. "Meaning ... you've read them _all?"_

"Not ... since all this began," the Seeker told her. "We've been busy."

"That's just her favorite," an urbane voice interrupted - Dorian, on his way to the new tavern.

"Nobody asked you, _Tevinter_ ," Cassandra snapped at him, almost as embarrassed as Amelia herself, it seemed.

"Let me guess," Amelia groaned as Dorian passed them by. " _You've_ read them, too?"

"Most," he nodded, grinning at her discomfort. "Fascinating, but terrible. I couldn't finish the last one she lent me. I actually feel dumber for having tried."

She met his grin with a tolerant frown, too fond of him to be _too_ put out. "Go away."

"I'm gone," Dorian promised. "Drop by the library, and I'll find you something better to read."

Both women watched him saunter off, each embarrassed for different reasons. Cassandra was the one who broke the silence.

"It's literature," she confessed with supreme reluctance. "Smutty literature."

"I'm aware of that," Amelia sighed, wishing she'd never interrupted her friend's reading now.

"You have read it?" the Seeker asked, her eyes lighting up hopefully.

"I ... didn't have to," the mage admitted. It was her turn to be reluctant. "I lived a fair bit of it." She took in her friend's dumbfounded expression, privately promising herself that she was going to have words with Varric about his insistence on continuing the excruciating serial. "Cassandra, Varric based _The Gallows Bride_ on the mages and templars who got married at Meredith's orders. I _was_ one of them."

Cassandra stared at her, gripping the book tightly in her hands. "Then ... Colston ... and Emily ..." she said slowly, comprehension dawning on her face. She leaned in so suddenly that Amelia found herself swaying back out of instinct. "You _have_ to tell me how much of it is true."

"Do I?"

"Yes! But ..." A hint of pleading came into the Seeker's voice. "Whatever you do, don't tell Varric."

"I really think he'd be pleased you're enjoying his work," Amelia offered, though the simmering hostility between the Seeker and the dwarven rogue could not be overstated.

Cassandra grimaced. "Yes, he would," she conceded in a dull tone, but her enthusiasm returned as she went on. "They're terrible ... and _magnificent_ ," she confessed, half in love with the written word in her hands. "And this one ends in a cliffhanger. I know Varric is working on the next, he must be! You ... _you_ could ask him to finish it, _command_ him ..." Abruptly, Cassandra seemed to realize what she was doing. Her hopeful expression flattened, hidden away behind the more familiar sight of her resting disapproval. "Pretend you don't know this about me."

Amelia bit down on her smile as Cassandra walked away, torn between laughter and mortification. On one hand, the staid Seeker enjoyed Varric's smutty serials; on the other hand, her favorite was based very heavily on Amelia's own marriage. How was she supposed to react to that? One thing was sure - if Sera ever found out, neither one of them would ever hear the end of it.


	14. Chapter 14

Sunlight lingered longer up here in the mountains, making a mockery of any attempt to sleep before the sun had set behind the peaks. And even if Amelia had tried, she was too nervous to sleep yet. What if he didn't come? As midnight drew ever nearer, it seemed more and more likely that Cullen had forgotten his agreement to sleep beside her tonight. Had she spoken too soon? Had he changed his mind? Had some emergency reared its head to keep him at his desk far longer than was good for him? But no, she'd said if he wasn't here by midnight, she'd go looking for him. And midnight was still an hour away when she heard a knock at her door.

She raised her head from the book she had been failing to read since retiring to her quarters, listening as the door below opened tentatively.

"Amelia?"

Relief washed through her at the sound of Cullen's soft call. He was obviously worried about waking her if she had already fallen asleep. "There's a bench by the door," she called back lightly. "You know the drill."

She wasn't surprised to hear him chuckle in response, the gentle creak of the door closing covering his low mutter. Probably something about how some things never changed. It had been one of the few things she had absolutely insisted upon in Kirkwall - boots came off as soon as he entered their rooms, and were left beneath the bench by the door. He'd always seemed oblivious to just how much dust and dirt came home with him each evening, but it would be no different here. Right now, anyone visiting her quarters had to walk through a building site; she wasn't having all that tracked through the rugs everyone had taken such pains to procure for her.

A few minutes later, she felt, more than saw, his arrival at the top of the stairs, carefully marking her place in the book before looking over at him. He seemed surprisingly nervous, lingering by the railing as he swept his gaze over the room in search of her, an armor stand tucked under one arm. All he could see of her was head and shoulders, the rest concealed by the high back of the couch she had curled up on, but his expression relaxed when he found her watching him.

"I had thought you might already be sleeping," he offered uncertainly, glancing toward the bed. He seemed almost disappointed that she wasn't.

Amelia shook her head. "Too nervous to sleep," she admitted honestly. "It's a good kind of nervous ... although I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Neither was I," he confessed, another chuckle escaping his lips. "The nightmares ... you have so little chance for undisturbed sleep. I have no wish to rob you of it."

"You aren't the only one who doesn't sleep peacefully, Cul," she answered in a gentle tone, setting her book aside to rise and join him.

As she rounded the couch, she saw his gaze drop down to her bare legs, lingering to admire for a moment too long before he dragged his eyes away with a self-conscious cough. "That's ... less than I was expecting," he croaked, his face flushing at whatever devious thoughts were running through his mind as he gestured to the sleep shirt she wore without even glancing again in her direction - a shirt that hung loose on her frame but only just skimmed her thighs.

"You were expecting me to sleep in my armor?" she asked almost playfully, knocking one knuckle on his cuirass. "I promise your virtue is safe tonight, commander. You can disarm in safety."

His warm eyes shot back to hers, the color of fine spirits at the first sip, and reluctantly, a smile relaxed his features. "And here I was, expecting to be ravished," he answered in kind. "I shall just have to live with the disappointment."

Her lips parted in a fond smile, glad to see his tension ease. He really could get embarrassed enough for the both of them. "That's better." Her gaze dropped as she took the stand from under his arm, suddenly noting the state of his socks. Both big toes were poking free from decidedly threadbare wool. "Have you still not learned to darn socks?"

His head lowered sharply to look at the offending clothing, snapping back up to meet her grin as he sought an answer for her. "I'm not going to grace that with an answer," was what he eventually came up with.

She laughed, shaking her head at his hopeless inability to look after himself. "Get ready for bed, Cullen." Still chuckling, she moved to set up the stand beside her own armor, automatically adjusting it to suit his preference.

When she turned back, he had removed his fur mantle and wide belt, his sword propped against a chair, and had assumed the awkwardly graceless twist of everyone attempting to undo buckles placed directly behind their own armpits. The edge of one pauldron dug into his cheek as he struggled, scowling with fierce concentration. It was such a familiar sight that she found herself staring, smiling as she recalled the many times she had watched him do just this of an evening. At first, it had utterly fascinated her - the sheltered mage discovering that a templar's armor was not made formidable by means of magic, but by means of the myriad overlapping pieces that were a struggle to put on and take off. Fascination had turned to curiosity, but he had never allowed her to help him back then, still too wary to trust a mage's hands on his first and last line of defense. But it was different now, wasn't it?

"Let me," she told him, batting his hand away to pull the buckle loose. If he objected, he didn't say a word, focusing his attention on his couters and vambraces as she worked on the buckles securing the front and back plates of his cuirass. "This is better armor than you used to have," she commented curiously as they divested him of the different pieces that guarded his form from attack.

"Cassandra insisted," Cullen told her with a low sigh. "I didn't need it replaced."

"You're not a templar anymore," Amelia murmured, setting the cuirass to one side. "You shouldn't wear their symbol."

"Until you declare me free from lyrium, I am still leashed as they are," he said impatiently, pulling the rust-stained padded shirt over his head as he spoke. "When are you going to reduce the dose again?"

She glanced up at him, distracted momentarily by the glimpse of his treasure trail before his undershirt dropped back into place once more. "Never," she answered his question, addressing his knees as she undid the buckles of his greaves. "You haven't taken any lyrium for almost a month now. Dorian didn't want to be the one to tell you, so he's been dosing you with that potion we made to help with the headaches."

Cullen stilled, staring down at her. "No lyrium?" he asked, his tone utterly disbelieving. But why would she lie about this? It had all been her idea in the first place.

"No lyrium," she confirmed, rising to her feet before him. "I'm sorry, I should have told you -"

Whatever further apology she had was abruptly cut off by tender lips on hers, expressing with a single kiss what words would struggle to make clear. Her soft sound of surprise died in her throat as she opened her lips to him, surrendering easily as he drew her close. No armor this time to shield her from the heat of his body against her own, or the hands that smoothed knowingly to her neck and into the dip of her back. She breathed him in, that heady scent she had missed so much, her own hands almost shy as her palms skimmed his sides, as her braid unraveled at his touch. Her feet shifted as he pressed into her, each one plundering the other's lips like a dying man thirsting for life.

The sudden shock of the bed post at her back startled them both, breaking the dizzying contact with gasps that had little to do with needing air. Breath mingling with each heave of their chests, they clung together in the stillness.

"I'm sorry," Cullen breathed, the whiskey tone of his eyes dark with longing. "I shouldn't have -"

It was his turn to be cut off, her trembling fingers resting lightly over his mouth. "You should," she whispered to him, breathless from the thrill of a single kiss. "Whenever you like."

His fingers combed through her hair, his gaze searching hers for any sign that he had overstepped the mark. "I've been wanting to do that for far too long," he admitted ruefully. "It never seemed the right time."

"If we keep waiting for the right time, it will never come," she murmured, lifting onto her toes to brush a softer kiss to the scar she had left on his lip back in Kirkwall. "I never asked," she heard herself say. "Why didn't you have that Healed?"

A wry grin touched his face, that scar giving him the roguish look that made it so very hard to concentrate. "It was all I had left of you," he conceded in a teasingly mournful tone. "Perhaps it was foolish, but I could not bear the thought of ever forgetting you."

She smiled, touched by the sweet sentimentality. "You should have come to Ostwick," she couldn't help reprimanding him a little. "I would have gone with you."

"Your last words to me were to wish we had never met," he reminded her in a gentle voice. "I thought I was protecting you from regretting us."

"I was an idiot," she informed him succinctly, glad to see him smile along with her at her blunt assessment of her own past behavior. But when she moved to kiss him again, he gently drew back, releasing her from his grasp.

"I don't dare, Ame, not here," he told her, softly apologetic but firm in his conviction, despite his body's evidence to the contrary. "You're right. We're not ready to go farther than this, not yet. I never want to force you."

"You never will." Yet she knew what he meant. Kisses were welcome, a long denied form of affection they had starved themselves of needlessly. But kisses right now, with the temptation of the bed so close and a guarantee of no interruptions ... it would be too easy to throw caution to the wind and rush ahead into an intimacy neither one believed they had earned. They had too many regrets together; she didn't want to add another one. "You look exhausted," she told him tenderly. "Get into bed. I'll stow your armor."

The rumple of her shirt under his hand as he pulled away without argument sent an electric current sweeping over her skin to earth as bubbling, liquid heat somewhere deep inside. But she held firm, pointedly telling her libido to play dead as she gathered the discarded pieces of his armor, and his sword, to set them securely on the stand. By the time she turned back, he was already beneath the blankets in his linen undershirt and small clothes, propped on his side to watch her with a fond smirk playing over his face.

She raised her brows in challenge, gesturing to the stand. "Well? How did I do, master and commander?"

Cullen laughed, a short burst of mirth that brightened his entire being. "Very well done," he complimented her, patting the bed beside him. "Now come here."

Preening inwardly at the praise, Amelia paused only briefly, sending out tendrils of ice to extinguish the lamps and bank the fire, before sliding herself between the sheets. She absently noted that he had claimed the side nearest the stairs, still protecting her without needing to think about it. Aware of the heat of him so close, she settled onto her back, lacing her fingers together over her stomach. They lay together in silence for what felt like a small age, until finally Cullen spoke, unable to sleep just yet.

"I can hardly believe I'm free of it," he said softly into the dimly-lit dark. "It barely seems weeks since you forced that philter down my throat."

" _Someone_ had to do it," she defended her bullying tactics mildly. "Straight withdrawal was killing you."

"The headaches still come," he confessed, staring straight up toward the canopy over them. "But I can predict them, avoid the worst of them. I never could before."

"I'll make sure we always have some of the potion to deal with the pain," she promised, feeling herself relax as they lay together and simply talked. It wasn't pillow talk, _per se_ , but it had always been easier to talk to him like this than face to face in the sunlight.

"I keep wondering ... could we have done this for Samson?" Cullen asked, barely more than a whisper in the darkness. "Could I have prevented him from taking his path?"

She closed her eyes, hating the guilt that suffused his voice. "Where he is now is not your fault," she told him, twisting until she lay facing him, reaching for his hand as she studied his profile in the gloom. "I've wondered myself. But Samson is not the man you are, Cul. He doesn't have your strength; he never did."

"But - "

"No." She wasn't going to let him torture himself with this. " _Listen_ to me. Six months ago, you would rather have died than take lyrium again. Samson never even _tried_ to deny his addiction. He risked everything, everyone, to keep his supply constant. He didn't care who got hurt because of it. You would never do that."

"I should have kept trying," he argued gently. "I should have kept you out of it."

"How could we possibly have sent him lyrium if Meredith hadn't thought it was meant for me?" she countered, just as gently. "I knew the risk. I still took it."

"And you were punished for it," he said from between clenched teeth, gathering her hand to his chest. "I can never forgive him for how careless he was with your life."

She was silent for a long moment, remembering that punishment only too vividly. Samson had boasted to his associates where his lyrium was coming from, naming only her, and one of them had sold the information to the templars. Meredith's "mercy" had shown itself in a whipping that had almost killed her - a mercy only in that the alternative would have seen her made Tranquil. No one had dared to speak out, not even Cullen, but that was the last day Samson received any lyrium from his former friend.

"You cannot help someone who will not help himself," she said finally. "It's Samson's own weakness that had brought him to Corypheus. You did more than anyone for him."

"And yet here I am, free, while he is in service to the oldest evil in the world." Cullen sighed softly. He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her knuckles. "Forgive me, I do not mean to cast blame. The past seems so easy to correct from this viewpoint."

"I suppose we simply have to learn from those mistakes," she murmured, reclaiming her hand only to slither closer, laying her head on his shoulder as his arm curled about her form, strong and protective. They were still for a while longer, each lost in their thoughts until she spoke again. "I feel as though I should warn you," she mused softly. "Cassandra is a _huge_ fan of _The Gallows Bride_."

She felt his sudden laughter vibrating through his chest, the huff of his breath the only audible clue to his intense amusement. "That goes a long way to explaining why Cole keeps inquiring after my _bulging manhood_ ," he told her in an almost joyful tone. "And Dorian's insistence on giving me seduction tips."

"Oh no, Cole, too?" she asked, though it was far less mortifying here with Cullen than it had been in the courtyard.

"He seems utterly fascinated," her husband informed her, and she could _hear_ his grin in the darkness.

"This isn't funny, Cullen," she protested laughingly. "I have to share a tent with Cassandra. And she wants to know how much of it is true."

"Oh, all of it," he teased, catching her hand before she could thump him. "Particularly Emily's _perky orbs of fecund delight_."

"I'm going to kill that dwarf," Amelia promised, though they both knew she didn't mean a word of it. A little embarrassment was a small price to pay for peace among the inner circle.

"Kill him tomorrow," Cullen suggested, tucking her close against his side as he kissed her brow. "Go to sleep, Ame. I'm right here."

She sighed, more soothed by the sensation of him wrapped around her than she was prepared to admit. Nestling close, she pressed a kiss of her own to his throat, letting the reassuring curl of his arms guide her into sleep. Perhaps tonight she would walk the Fade free from demons, but if not, she would wake in Cullen's arms. That was worth all the nightmares Corypheus could conjure. No darkspawn magister was going to take this away from her, not now she had it back. Some things really were too precious to lose.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know, but I had to get these scenes out of my head!

The Inquisition's insistence on setting up multiple base camps in the regions where the Inquisitor was active was one of Cullen's better ideas, in Blackwall's opinion. This way, they were never more than an hour's march from safety, and once within the perimeter of the camp, had the luxury of not needing to argue about who took which watch. They were able to relax and recover, secure in the knowledge that the Inquisition was watching over them. At least, that was the theory. In practice, Blackwall had discovered, Lady Rutherford rarely had an evening when she could fully relax, even when she was trying to sleep.

He could hear the ladies in the next tent over, unable to avoid listening to the snatches of conversation, even as he endeavored to relax his own senses and seek sleep.

"Sera, if you _must_ share my bedroll, can you at least take the bow out from between us?"

"Maybe," the Red Jenny responded to Amelia's weary request. "What's in it for me if I do?"

"No, I'm not letting you read my letters."

"Aw, but they're so funny!" Sera protested, her familiar laugh making Blackwall smile in spite of himself. "Who'd have thought your Cully-Wully'd be so shy?"

"He's not shy, he's ... I'm not having this conversation." To her credit, the Inquisitor _was_ laughing. "Go to sleep, Sera."

"All right, all right ..."

For a few minutes, there was blessed silence, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thuds of what Blackwall was fairly sure would turn out to be giants' footsteps. A good night's sleep before taking on giants was definitely necessary. As much as he loved his leader, she had a distressing tendency to rush into danger _ahead_ of the warriors in her group. She was a capable mage, but not even a mage can prevent a giant from picking her up and using her for a football. Then ...

"Wow, you're tenser than Solas on the privy," Sera's voice broke the silence again. "Are you _still_ not knockin' boots?"

"No, we're not, and this really isn't your business, Sera," Amelia's sigh answered.

"But you're married! I thought he'd at least have whipped _this_ off and -"

A loud yelp interrupted, punctuated by the sound of flesh snapping hard against flesh. "Sera! _Hands!"_

"Kindly do not harass the Inquisitor while I am trying to sleep." That was Cassandra, smooth tones cutting through Sera's decidedly filthy laughter.

"Daytime danglies only, got it."

"Maker's breath ..." To Blackwall's ear, Amelia sounded more than a little strained. "Don't put your hands _there_ , either."

"Are you sure Cully-Wully knows what he's doing? They're really soft and perky -"

"We're not discussing my breasts. Go to _sleep_."

"Spoilsport. Bet Blackwall'd let me squeeze his man bosoms."

"Bet he wouldn't." He'd spoken without thinking, wanting the speculation about breasts - and Amelia's in particular - to stop before he got too uncomfortable. In another life, he might have ... But she was a married woman, a holy symbol; he shouldn't be thinking of her that way at all.

"Are you eavesdroppin' on the girls' tent?" Sera asked in the darkness.

"Hard not to with all the chat," Blackwall answered her in a level tone. "Let the Inquisitor sleep, girl. We'll find you someone to fondle back at Skyhold."

"Mmm, fondlin' ..."

One last giggle, and silence reigned once more. Blackwall shifted onto his back, letting himself slowly begin to relax, listening to the crackle and snap of the camp fire amid the sounds of the Emerald Graves beneath the moons' light. Senses still alert, he could identify the passage of nugs and halla as the breeze stirred the great green trees, and the reassuring tread of boots as the Inquisition agents patrolled the perimeter of the camp. A familiar, growling snore started up, one he'd grown used to in the Deep Roads - Sera, finally asleep. She wasn't _quite_ as loud as Varric, but it was close.

He was just on the verge of drifting off when Cassandra's voice broke the silence, soft but impossible to ignore. "Inquisitor?"

"Mmm?"

"May I ask a question?"

 _Andraste's tits, let the woman sleep,_ he thought to himself, even as his hearing sharpened to catch what was coming, embarrassed to admit that he was interested in what the Seeker might have to ask.

"What is it, Cassandra?" Maker, but Amelia sounded tired. He had no idea how she could stay so patient with her chatty camp-mates when she was clearly exhausted.

"I have been wondering ... Did you truly never see Cullen before the day you were married?"

He heard Amelia sigh softly once more. That bloody book of Varric's hadn't left her much in the way of privacy; nor Cullen, either. He could hardly take the high ground, though - he was waiting for Josephine to finish the latest installment so _he_ could read it. It was the closest he was ever likely to get to a connection with the Inquisitor that went beyond that of comrades in arms or friends.

"I had a miniature portrait of him," the mage said softly, no doubt concerned about waking the sleeping Sera who, by now, would have draped herself over Amelia comfortably. She was, as Amelia said, a hugger. "But he never saw _me_ until that day."

"I see. And he was ... good to you?"

Ashamed of himself for his interest, Blackwall rolled to face the canvas separating him from the quiet conversation. Cullen was a good man _now_ , he was sure of that, but reading between the lines of _The Gallows Bride_ , he wasn't sure he would have liked the commander back then. But Amelia had clearly seen something in the man he was in Kirkwall, or she would not have been so willing to acknowledge her marriage when their paths crossed again. Jealousy was something of an ugly emotion - uglier still when the man he was jealous of had been welcoming to him right from the start. Blackwall considered Cullen his friend; a friend should not harbor covetous thoughts about their friend's wife.

"He never hurt me, not intentionally," Amelia was saying. "He's never been very good at talking to women, even his own sisters."

"That is not what I meant."

" _Cassandra_ ..." The word was more of a breath than a name, laden with reluctance.

"It is only that the book says ..." There was the rustle of cloth on cloth as a body turned in a bedroll. "It says that you were unwilling on your wedding night, and seduced into rapture."

"Cassandra ... that's a complete fiction." He didn't need to see her to know that Amelia was blushing in the darkness of the tent. He'd seen that pained smile often enough to know the sound of it in her voice. The woman had the patience of Andraste, that was for certain. "Varric made it all up. Unless you think he was hiding under the bed."

"Don't be absurd." The Seeker scoffed lightly, though she sounded a little disappointed. Blackwall could relate to that - it was the first stirring passage of Varric's seemingly endless tale, and one even he found highly enjoyable to read. "But Cullen himself has said that he was not gentle with you."

"Andraste's mercy ..." Now Amelia actually sounded pained, the smile missing from her voice. She was, by nature, a private person, and this conversation was reaching monumental levels of personal. "He doesn't mean he ... Can you imagine him forcing himself on _anyone?_ Even at his worst, he would never have even considered doing such a thing. It's terrible that you would even entertain the idea that he might be capable of it. When he says he wasn't gentle, he means his attitude toward me. That _was_ harsh, those first months."

"He never seduced you?" The disappointment was clear in Cassandra's voice. She was so heavily invested in the story she had read, it was a let down to discover just how much of it was untrue.

He heard Amelia laugh softly, glad she wasn't upset by the question. "He never _had_ to, Cassandra," she told the Seeker fondly, and again, he could imagine the fierce blush on her cheeks as she admitted to this. "I was in lust with the portrait. I'm not entirely sure there's a word for what I felt for the man himself."

"And ... now?"

"There _is_ a word for what I feel for him now, yes."

Blackwall grinned to himself in the darkness. _Masterfully done,_ he thought approvingly, despite the faint pang at the unspoken admission. But then, anyone who saw Amelia and Cullen together could tell how things stood between them. Still, he approved of the way she side-stepped the question. Amelia didn't seem the sort to confess her feelings to anyone before she did so to Cullen. It seemed that even a mage could have honor of a sort, proving that the match in her marriage was a good one.

"I understand. Thank you, Inquisitor."

" _Good night,_ Cassandra."

This time, the silence stuck. Mulling over what he had heard, Blackwall resumed his position on his back, certain thoughts repeating themselves as he settled in to sleep. In spite of his own minor infatuation with the Inquisitor, she was clearly happy with that part of her life, and the man who made her happy was a good man in his book. She'd be even happier when Cullen finally pulled his finger out and _did_ something about the way he looked at her when she wasn't looking. Perhaps it was time Blackwall properly befriended the commander, gave him some advice he seemed to be sorely lacking. He doubted Dorian's advice and suggestions were quite on a par with what Cullen himself was comfortable with. After everything she'd been through, the Inquisitor deserved a happy marriage, at least.

 

* * *

 

_Dearest Ame,_

_I am glad to note you have arrived safely on the Exalted Plains. Reports are sketchy, at best, but it would seem that Celene's and Gaspard's troops have called a truce for the time being, waiting for the outcome of the proposed peace talks at Satinalia. Their only hostile contact should be limited to minor skirmishes outside their own fortifications. You should encounter little resistance yourself -_

"Dint no one tell him about the dead'uns?" a voice declared close to Amelia's ear.

She turned her head, unable to keep from smiling at her shameless friend. "You could at least _pretend_ you're not reading over my shoulder, Sera."

The elf grinned back at her. "Psh, where's the fun in that?"

Amelia laughed helplessly. For all her annoying qualities, she liked Sera. The irrepressible Red Jenny kept her grounded in a lot of ways. "You're incorrigible."

"Nah, just wicked," Sera responded easily. "Keep going, I want to see what else is new."

"I could just tell you when I'm done," the mage suggested, but Sera was having none of it.

"You always leave out the good bits," she complained. "There's _got_ to be some passion under all that fur."

"He's not the sort to write it down," Amelia tried to argue, but to no avail. Sera's eyes were already fixed on the letter in her hand again.

"Shh. Readin'."

Sighing, she turned her own attention back to Cullen's penmanship, trying to ignore her audience and the sound of Cassandra muttering over the report she was trying to write.

_\- little resistance yourself, despite your uncanny ability to find trouble. Perhaps the Dalish clan sighted on the Plains can be of some help deciphering the glyphs these Freemen of the Dales are seeking._

"You're gonna make us talk to the elfy elves?" Sera objected loudly.

"It's a good suggestion," Amelia pointed out, though she knew Sera was deeply uncomfortable around elves of any background. "If nothing else, they could tell us where to find these glyphs."

"You bendin' over his desk is a _good_ suggestion," her friend said bluntly, delighted when the Inquisitor blushed crimson. "Ha! Gotcha!"

_My agents have been sent to Emprise du Lion, but conditions being what they are, I do not expect news for several weeks. It is looking increasingly likely that this hunt will have to be delayed until after the talks at Halamshiral. Speaking of which, please inform Josephine as soon as possible that you will not be attending in the latest Orlesian fashions. She seems determined to dress us all up in imperial frippery. Madame de Fer has sent for her person seamstress. The talks are five months away!_

"Lady Bitchface is making a dress for you?" Amelia glanced up to find Sera looking her over with an appraising eye. "Reckon you'd look good all ruffled up. Not in a mask, though. That's creepy shit."

"I'm likely going to have to fight," she reminded her friend. "I can't really do that in a ballgown, Sera."

"Well, not an Orlesian one, no," the elf agreed. "I have friends, we'll make somethin' up."

Biting down a less than friendly comment on her friend's sense of the appropriate, Amelia straightened her letter to continue reading.

_Mia has sent you a letter. I have no idea how long it has been wandering Ferelden; it seems a little dog-eared. I have -_

"Ha! Dog-eared, good one."

_\- have not yet written to her myself. I would not know what to say. I feel certain the news of our survival will reach her eventually, if you do not respond to this letter of hers. She is very good at tracking me down._

"Like a dog! Wait ... who's Mia?"

Amelia raised her head again, catching Blackwall's eye for a moment before leveling her gaze onto Sera once more. "Mia is Cullen's sister," she explained patiently. "And no, I don't think either of them would appreciate your comparing her to a dog."

"Has she got pretty hair like him?" Sera asked hopefully.

"I've no idea, I've never met her," Amelia admitted, though she doubted Mia was an ugly woman. She was directly related to Cullen, after all. "She _does_ have a husband and a son, though."

"Well, that's pish."

"Sera." They both looked up to find Blackwall rising to his feet. He gestured to the elf. "Let's work on your melee defense for a while," he suggested. "Your close calls are too close for my comfort."

Sera grimaced. "Just means you're gonna hit me with your shield."

"Indulge an old man."

As Sera rose, muttering to herself about not needing practise, Amelia caught Blackwall's eye with a grateful smile. He inclined his head to her, clearly understanding how she felt about her letters, and turned to walk Sera a little way from the camp, giving the Inquisitor some respite from the incessant interruptions. A glance to Cassandra found the Seeker still scowling as her quill crept with glacial speed over the parchment on her knee. Peace, at last ... and just in time, it seemed.

_I miss you, Ame. Without you, my nights are bleak, my work unrelenting. The nightmares strike harder in my lonely bed than in your arms. Uncontrolled magic is no longer my greatest fear - that takes the form of a life lived without you. Be safe, I beg you. Come home in one piece._

_Yours,_  
_Cullen._

She bit her lip, her eyes scanning over that last paragraph more than once, marking each inky blotch that told her how he had hesitated to include it. Yet, despite his reservations, there it was in plain ink - he missed her. Not simply her chaste presence in his bed, but in his _life_. He missed seeing her each day, speaking to her, hearing her voice. A warm thrill touched her heart as she smiled at that thought. Slowly but surely, they were building on their foundation. For all its sauciness and fast-paced romance, _The Gallows Bride_ had nothing on the real thing.


	16. Chapter 16

"Duchess, wake up."

Amelia groaned in protested, rising from sleep with distinct reluctance in answer to the very insistent voice by her ear. She felt Cullen's arm about her waist tighten in his own protest as she shifted toward the voice, forcing her eyes open to focus on the unwelcome intruder.

Varric was standing there, slightly wild-eyed and distinctly uncomfortable to be waking the Inquisitor while she was in bed with her husband. He waited until she had roused herself enough to understand what he was there to say, biting down a grin at the unfocused squint of her eyes. When, finally, she was looking at him with a clear, expectant gaze, he spoke. "She's here, Duchess," he told her, his voice soft in an attempt not to wake the commander. "Meet us on the battlements, above the quartermaster's tower. I'll, uh ... let you get dressed."

He slipped away, disappearing down the stairs with the uncanny silence of all the rogues she had ever met. Amelia sighed, knowing she couldn't stay in her nice warm bed now, not when the Champion of Kirkwall was waiting for her. With a gentle hand, she lifted Cullen's arm from around her, easing toward the edge of the bed.

_"Ame ..."_

"It's all right," she murmured, pausing to brush a soft kiss to his furrowed brow. "I won't be long."

"What's happened?" He was surfacing from sleep - there was no way he'd let her go to meet Hawke alone. There was history between Cullen and the Champion, history that would get in the way tonight.

"Varric needs me for a few minutes," she told him softly, stroking a hand against his cheek. "I'll be on the battlements. Keep the bed warm for me."

He sighed sleepily, torn between staying with her or going back to sleep, but under her gentle encouragement, sleep won out. She lingered for a moment, watching him settle once again before she rose from the bed, dressing as quickly as she could in the darkness. Then, with a last, envious look at her sleeping husband, she slipped from her quarters, hurrying down the tower stairs and through the quiet main hall, out into the cool night. She crossed the upper courtyard, mounting the stone steps to the battlements. Past the far tower, she spied a lit lantern, creating shadows of the two figures standing beside it. One dwarf - Varric - and one human, armored and still, her great sword hanging comfortably on her back. Both turned to face Amelia as she joined them.

"Inquisitor," Varric greeted her. "Meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall."

"Though I don't use that title much anymore."

Marian Hawke had a gentle tone to her voice, a weariness about her person that seemed to transcend mere fatigue. She smiled at Amelia, the odd sense of recognition shared by the two women. They had met only once, when Hawke had got lost in the Gallows while visiting her sister, Bethany. Amelia had given her directions; it was the only time they had ever spoken, but they knew of each other by reputation and interest.

"You look well, lady," Hawke said in her gentle way.

"We both look better than we should," Amelia responded quietly. "Thank you for coming, messere."

"I wish I could say it was a pleasure." Both women grimaced in a familiar fashion, sharing that wish. Making a new friend was a pleasure, but not in circumstances such as these.

"I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus," Varric interjected, handing Hawke a bottle of wine. "You and I did fight him, after all."

Amelia started in shock, the last of her sleepiness swept away by that revelation. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded of her dwarven friend.

Varric shifted under her accusing gaze, guilt and uncertainty warring in his eyes. For once, all his clever words deserted him, unable to raise an answer for her. He should have told her he knew a little about Corypheus; he _should_ have given her that information. Even he could see that she wasn't angry so much on behalf of the Inquisition as she was hurt that he hadn't trusted her. Hawke lowered the bottle from her lips, glancing between the pair of them warily.

"You've already dropped half an mountain on the bastard," she pointed out. "I'm sure anything I can tell you pales in comparison."

Distracted from her annoyance with Varric, Amelia returned her attention to Hawke. "I don't know," she commented, moving to stand beside the warrior. "You _did_ save a city from a horde of rampaging Qunari."

Hawke snorted sarcastically. "I don't see how that really applies," she smirked. "Or is there a horde of rampaging Qunari I don't know about?"

"There's _a_ Qunari," Amelia offered, leaning forward onto the stonework. "He almost qualifies as s horde all by himself. Fortunately, he's on our side."

"I've heard of the Iron Bull," Hawke mused in a low tone. "He's still with the Qun, right? Not Tal Vashoth?"

"No, he has opinions about Tal Vashoth," Amelia told her. "Actually, he has opinions on just about everything."

"And regales you with them, no doubt." Hawke sighed, bending to lean beside the Inquisitor. "So, then ... what can I tell you?"

Amelia ran a hand over her loose braid, wrapping it about her fist as she considered. There really was only one place to start. "Varric said that you fought Corypheus before."

"Fought and _killed_." She could understand the anger in Hawke's voice. Enemies that didn't stay dead were always at the advantage. The Champion scowled down at the night-cloaked fortress. "The Grey Wardens were holding him, and he somehow used his connection to the darkspawn to influence them."

"What?"

"Corypheus got into their heads, messed with their minds," Varric clarified. Apparently, now he wanted to be helpful. "Turned them against each other."

"And all the Wardens in Orlais and Ferelden have gone to ground," Amelia frowned. "Varric, you should have told me about this."

"Blackwall seemed fine," he offered in his defense. "I guess I was waiting for him to go evil first."

"Not very reassuring," she told him sternly.

"If the Wardens have disappeared, they could have fallen under Corypheus' control again," Hawke said, drawing them back to the subject at hand. Amelia could chew Varric out about his reticence another time.

Tearing her disappointed gaze from the dwarf, Amelia nodded to Hawke. "It seems likely," she agreed in a somber tone. "If that _is_ what's happened to the Wardens, do you think we can free them? Mind magics have never been my strong suit. And to be honest, we have enough enemies without adding the Grey Wardens to the list."

"That, I think we can all agree on," Hawke nodded. "It's possible they _have_ fallen under his influence, but we need to know more first."

"I'd suggest asking Blackwall, but he's as much in the dark as we are," Amelia said worriedly. "He hasn't been in contact with his fellow Wardens for over a year now."

Hawke straightened, turning to face her. "I've got a friend in the Wardens," she told Amelia. "Stroud was investigating something unrelated for me. The last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Wardens' ranks. Since then, nothing."

"Corypheus would certainly qualify as corruption in the ranks." Varric sounded worried now. A little late, in Amelia's opinion, but better late than never. "Hawke, did your friend disappear with them?"

"No," Hawke admitted. "He's been out of contact for a while, but he did tell me he'd be hiding in an old smuggler's cave, near Crestwood."

"Would he agree to meet me?" Amelia asked in concern.

"He'd probably be pleased to have you involved." Hawke chuckled, though the sound was hardly mirthful. "I don't carry much weight these days, but _you_ certainly do. If the Wardens are corrupted, we'll need all the help we can get."

"All right, we'll meet you in Crestwood," Amelia agreed. "Twenty days, at most, provided the locals aren't crying out for help."

"They might be," Hawke warned her. "I've heard some dark rumors from Crestwood these last months."

"Wonderful." Amelia frowned as another thought came to mind. "Wait ... if you _didn't_ know about Corypheus, what were you doing with the Wardens?"

"I was hoping they could tell me more about red lyrium," Hawke admitted awkwardly. "Meredith wasn't the only templar exposed to it in Kirkwall."

At this, a dark suspicion raised itself in Amelia's mind. "You knew Samson, didn't you?"

Hawke frowned curiously back at her. "We crossed paths a few times," she confirmed. "Why?"

Amelia glanced at Varric. The mild horror on his face suggested he knew where her mind had gone. "Was he visible in Kirkwall after you fought Corypheus?"

"I never kept that close an eye on him, but ..." Hawke trailed off, catching Varric's eye. "He shut up shop pretty soon after that, didn't he?"

"Seemed to," Varric agreed, scowling. "Sod it."

Hawke's pale eyes snapped to Amelia. "What's this about?"

"We've identified Samson as Corypheus' general," the Inquisitor told her heavily. "We couldn't work out where they might have crossed paths. Perhaps it was Kirkwall all along."

"Samson is taking red lyrium?" Hawke asked in alarm.

"He is," Amelia confirmed, angry she hadn't thought to check Kirkwall for the trail. "He's also supplying it to the templars Corypheus has corrupted, and we think his armor's made out of the stuff as well."

"How is he still alive?" Hawke was aghast. "Meredith turned to a statue with relatively minor exposure."

"I'm afraid Corypheus may have modified him for some unknown purpose," Amelia mused, letting out a deep sigh. "And it's my fault."

"Duchess, _none_ of this is your fault," Varric promised her seriously.

"Samson being exposed to red lyrium is," she argued wearily. "I should have argued with Cullen when he refused to supply him any longer. If he'd had access to the untainted source, Corypheus might never have corrupted him."

"And we'd be hunting a general we know nothing about," the dwarf pointed out. "Hate to say it, but it's better this way. Cullen's people know what they're looking for."

"That doesn't make me feel any better, Varric," she complained, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips for his attempt to comfort her.

"Wait ... _that_ was why you were whipped?" Hawke asked suddenly, catching up with the implication in what was being said. "Bethany was convinced it was because you'd refused to bear Cullen's child."

"A lot of people thought that." Amelia winced; yet another tale of her marriage that painted it far darker than it had ever been. "I was threatened with Tranquility if anyone found out the truth, and Cullen refused to take that risk. He cut off all contact with Samson, because of me."

"Your husband did get a lot more helpful after that," Hawke said, her expression thoughtful. "Regardless, hopefully my friend in the Wardens will know more."

Sighing softly, Amelia tugged on her braid. "I appreciate the help, messere."

"I'm doing this as much for myself as for you," Hawke told her in a dark tone. "Corypheus is my responsibility. I thought I'd killed him before. This time, I'll make sure of it."

"Hawke ..."

"It's the simple truth, Varric," the Champion told her best friend. "And none of this is _your_ fault, either."

"I lead you to him," the storyteller pointed out, only to be interrupted.

"Because he was trying to have me kidnapped and killed."

"One moment." Amelia held up a hand, immediately retracting it behind her back when Hawke's eyes focused on the gently glowing Anchor. She hated it when anyone stared at the mark on her palm. "You said you thought you'd killed Corypheus. Tell me what happened."

Hawke sighed. "The Grey Wardens had him in prison," she explained in a tense tone of voice. "They used my father's blood in a ritual to seal Corypheus inside, but he could still reach out and influence the Wardens' thoughts. He sent them after me - obviously _my_ blood could be used to release him. And I didn't just think I killed him," she added in irritation. "When the fight was done, he was dead on the ground. Maybe his tie to the Blight somehow brought him back, or maybe it's old Tevinter magic ... but he _was_ dead, I swear it."

"I'm not saying he wasn't," Amelia assured her, trying to placate the angry warrior. "But an unkillable darkspawn magister doesn't exactly bode well."

"No, it doesn't." Hawke let her anger go in a rush of breath. "I don't envy you this burden, Inquisitor, but I will do what I can to help you bear it."

"I appreciate that." Amelia managed a faint smile in the moonlight. "You have no idea how much I appreciate that."

"Oh, I could make an educated guess," Hawke said wryly. " _Inquisitor_ sits on you the way _Champion_ sits on me. The only difference is that I was responsible for a single city. The entire _world_ is looking to you."

Amelia groaned. "Thank you for reminding me."

Hawke snorted, touching her shoulder lightly. "You have friends, a husband," she reminded the mage. "Lean on them when you need to. They'll appreciate you more if you do. Oh, and try not to get Varric killed."

"The Seeker springs to mind," the dwarf suggested.

_Cassandra._ Leliana had been right; the Seeker _was_ going to kill Varric for keeping Hawke from her. Amelia tugged on her braid again. However annoyed she was with her dwarven friend, it wasn't enough to wish the Seeker's wrath on him. " _I'll_ tell Cassandra about tonight," she told him. "Just ... try not to be alone with her for a few months. And a sneak preview of the next chapter would probably help."

"The Seeker reads _Hard in Hightown?_ " Hawke asked skeptically.

Amelia grimaced, rolling her eyes as Varric chuckled. "It's worse than that."

It took a moment for the implication to sink in. When it did, Marian Hawke threw back her head and howled with laughter. Bent double, she guffawed, gasping for breath between each burst of merriment. When it became clear that she wasn't coming up for air anytime soon, Amelia sighed, her lips pursed in a tolerant smile.

"Right," she said conversationally over the spluttering chuckles. "I'm going back to bed. Hawke, I'll meet you in Crestwood. Varric, see you in the morning."

"G'night, Duchess."

Hawke's laughter seemed to follow her across the upper courtyard, blessedly cut off as the door to the main hall closed behind her. It was still deep enough into the night that no one was stirring as she made her way back to the tower, climbing those interminable steps to her own quarters with weary feet. She hadn't expected a lamp to be flickering when she got back, looking around curiously. Cullen had thrown his mantle on over his sleep wear, glancing up as she came into view, straightening from his lean against her desk.

"I thought you were asleep," she pointed out mildly, moving to join him.

"I was, briefly," he admitted. "Until I realized who it was you must have been called to meet."

She sighed, leaning against him wearily. "I suppose I should have let you come down with me," she mused. "Though I doubt you would have learned any more than I did."

His arm curled gently about her shoulders, welcoming her lean as he touched a soft kiss to her temple. "Tell me."

And so she did, relaying the entire conversation she had just shared with Hawke, along with the decisions that conversation had made for her. Cullen absorbed it all, letting her reach the end before offering his view of all she had learned.

"So you will go to Crestwood to meet this Warden," he said in a thoughtful tone. "I'll talk to Leliana and have her send the scouting party on ahead. If there _is_ trouble there, I want to know before you walk into it this time."

"I'll travel via Redcliffe," she told him. "Dorian has a family matter he needs to see to, sooner rather than later, but I doubt he'll be in much shape to tackle whatever's waiting in Crestwood, so I'll send him back to Skyhold when we're done. And Sera wants to go to some drop-off point outside Crestwood - a reward for that march through Verchiel you so kindly allowed."

"You lead an active life, Ame," her husband chuckled, but the smile died on his lips as another thought came to him. "The quarry at Sahrnia is going to have to wait, isn't it?"

"Until we know what this Warden Stroud knows, we can't make any plans beyond Crestwood," she said softly. "I'm sorry, Cul. But I swear, we won't let Samson get too far ahead of us."

He nodded, frowning as he glanced toward the balcony. "It isn't your fault, you know," he told her, his tone brooking no argument. "You didn't know anything about him before we married. I painted him as kind but misguided, a good man brought low. Clearly, I was wrong."

"We can't know for certain _what_ happened until we retrace his steps in Kirkwall," she reminded him. "I wish you weren't so quick to blame yourself for other people's choices."

"But I -"

"Enough, Cullen." She pulled away, turning to hold his gaze. "You are not responsible for Raleigh Samson, any more than you're responsible for Meredith, or even Corypheus, for that matter. You are responsible for yourself, and to a lesser degree, the men and women under your command. No more, and no less. We _will_ track him down, but we will do it _together_. I won't have you trying to face him alone."

"I don't want _you_ to face him at all," he burst out, a flash of anger at her patience with this obsession of his. "The last time you and he were in contact, it was indirect, and you could have _died_."

"Cullen, every day I could die," she said sternly. "Every place I go, every person I meet, could be the end of me. Stop making me an excuse for how you feel about this."

"An excuse?" His expression darkened with a familiar anger, though she'd never seen it aimed at her before now. "You think that's all you are to me, an excuse?"

"When it comes to Samson, yes," she answered plainly, holding her ground with some difficulty. She knew he didn't mean to be intimidating, but that look in his eyes was hard to hold with her own gaze. "If you can't be honest with me, at least be honest with yourself. _He'll_ know the truth. You need to face up to it before he has a chance to use it as a weapon against you."

"Amelia, I ... I can't ..." Cullen let out a frustrated gust of breath, tearing his eyes from hers. How could he make her understand what this was about?

Amelia sighed, knowing they were both too tired for her to push this tonight. She shook her head, stepping away to strip out of her coat and boots, preparing to return to bed. All the while, Cullen stood motionless, lost in his own thoughts, his fists clenching and relaxing to a slow beat only he could hear. Quietly, she slipped back into the bed, burrowing down beneath the blankets as she tried not to focus on how hurtful it was that he would rather linger in thoughts of Samson than lie beside her. But then, Samson had been a part of his life far longer than she had - a friend, a brother. It was still shocking to see his name signed on orders from Corypheus. The man had sold his soul for tainted lyrium and status, yet Cullen insisted on seeing the parallels, not the stark differences. She didn't know how to help him through this.

She couldn't have said how long she lay there, listening to her bruised heart, but finally Cullen shook off his thoughts and came to bed. He reached for her, and she rolled willingly into his embrace, wishing she had the words to make him see sense. But words wouldn't do anything to change his mind; he had words of his own that would always take priority over hers. She kissed him in the darkness, letting him gather her close to listen to his heart as the steady beat calmed for sleep. No, she didn't have the words, not even for this. But for now, this was enough.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another game point dialogue chapter, BUT the next one is back to Cullen and Amelia, and has original dialogue and everything!

"And that _scream_ as it went down ..."

An unearthly noise echoed through the hills as the Iron Bull threw back his great horned head and roared to the sky. The Qunari was covered in blood, his shoulder guard in tatters, and limping heavily, but Amelia didn't think she'd ever seen him so happy.

And he wasn't the only one. Their incidental skirmish with the High Dragon that had made her nest in an old ruin near Crestwood hadn't been planned, but it had left them all in a good mood, despite the battering they'd taken. While Iron Bull roared, Sera was laughing, not seeming to mind the fact that her left arm was covered with painful burns. Even Blackwall was swaggering a little. And if she was honest, Amelia felt pretty damned proud of herself, too. They'd taken down a dragon, with no warning and no preparation, and all four had come out of it more or less upright. All right, so she'd been flung bodily through a crumbling wall by the creature's tail, and her advisors were going to yell at her, but come on ... it was a _dragon_. She, Amelia Rutherford, worst offensive caster in the history of the Ostwick Circle, had killed a High Dragon!

They were on their way back to the nearest camp; the Inquisition presence in the area increased ten-fold since the Inquisitor's small party had engaged the dragon. There would be no bandit ambushes to knock the weakened four back after their major success. With Bull and Sera celebrating as they went, it was a relief to walk beside Blackwall who, while no less delighted with their success, was far less effusive in his own triumph. The Warden had come out of the encounter with nothing more than a singed beard. His had been the hands that had dug her out of the rubble after the dragon lay dead, far more concerned about the state of her than about the fact that Sera's arm was on fire.

"Hey, boss - that spell in the eye?" Bull said over his shoulder. "Good work!"

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it, Bull," Amelia called back with a chuckle, forced to bite down on a louder laugh at Blackwall's response beside her.

"Good work? Saved his bloody life, that did," the Warden muttered, steadying her as she stumbled painfully. "How's he still standing? Damned thing sat on him twice."

"Twice?" she asked with a glassy-eyed smile. "I only saw the first time."

"Of course you did," Blackwall grumbled. "You _did_ spend most of the fight under a wall."

"Not by choice," she laughed, nudging him until he cracked a smile. "Next time we do this, you are definitely coming along."

" _Next_ time?"

"Well, there _are_ a few dragons that need dealing with," she pointed out innocently. "And we _do_ need the practise."

He eyed her levelly for a moment. "If you can walk tomorrow, we'll talk about it," he conceded graciously. 

"Spoilsport," she chuckled. "I'm one big bruise, and you know it." Catching the eye of the requisition officer as they entered the camp, she let Blackwall go on ahead of her. "Sergeant ... you may have noticed there's a dragon corpse in the valley."

The sergeant grinned. "Looked a good fight from here, Your Worship."

"I was unconscious for most of it, but we won!" Still buoyed up by that triumph, Amelia giggled happily, unashamed of her sheer delight at the victory. "I want the skull and the scales from the carcass. The rest can go to a naturalist living near here - Judith is her name. She's been very helpful."

"Aye, milady, that we'll do," the sergeant agreed, raising her fist to her chest in salute. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"I notice _my_ invitation to the dragon baiting got lost," a familiar voice said at Amelia's ear.

The battered Inquisitor turned as the sergeant moved away, focusing her eyes with some difficulty on the owner of that voice. "Hawke! Who says you need an invitation? You could have joined in at any time."

The Champion of Kirkwall looked her over with a grin. "I decided not to after the dragon tried to teach you how to fly," she chuckled. "I just got here myself. Let's dose you with enough elfroot to sink a dreadnought before we drop in on Stroud."

"I'm not _that_ hurt," Amelia protested, even as she was lead to the campfire and gently forced to sit, wincing at the howl of pain from Sera as the healer got to work on the elf.

"Oh, really? How many fingers?" Hawke held up a hand.

Amelia attempted to focus. There were four ... no, three ... blurry, sausagey shapes in front of her. Or was it six? "All right, maybe I'm a _little_ concussed," she conceded in defeat, taking the vial from the other woman to down it in one. The action of tipping it up sent her crashing backward, landing on her back with her head inside the tent behind her. "The sky's gone."

She heard Hawke chuckle once more, the flap of the tent pushed aside as the Champion heaved her back into a sitting position. "Oh, yes, just a _little_ concussed," the warrior teased gently, handing her another vial of the healing potion. "Slowly this time."

It took an hour, a lot of elfroot, and the determined effort of an Inquisition mage, but eventually Amelia's head was clear enough to look to the whole reason they were in Crestwood in the first place. Iron Bull was laid out on the ground, groaning as one of the scouts manipulated his strained shoulder; Sera had been sedated by the healer after violently attempting to stop the man from doing his job and heal her. That left Blackwall to watch her back - he was more than capable of it, but she couldn't help hoping there wouldn't be any need. Between the horrible throb in her temple, and the stiffening of her much abused limbs, Amelia really wasn't looking forward to wielding her staff again any time soon.

With a promise to the Inquisition soldiers that she'd protect their Inquisitor with her life, Hawke lead the way from the camp, Amelia and Blackwall walking with her. It turned out that the camp itself had been set up just a little way from the hidden smugglers' cave where the Champion's Warden friend was hiding out. The Banner of the Blood Men, a rather notorious group known for selling slaves to Tevinter, was marked up at the cave entrance, but the bloodstains suggested that the Warden within had been very persuasive in claiming the cave for himself. That violence explained why, within a few moments of entering, Amelia found herself looking along the blade of a sword leveled at her nose.

Blackwall reacted instantly, drawing his own sword in response as he stepped in front of her. "Easy now," he said, meeting the eyes of the Grey Warden before them.

"It's just us," Hawke assured her friend, her hands held up peaceably. "I brought the Inquisitor. And this is Blackwall, another free Warden."

Haunted eyes studied the three of them before the Warden reacted, sheathing his sword smoothly. "Forgive my suspicion, brother," he apologized to Blackwall, raising his gaze to Amelia before inclining his head. "My name is Stroud, and I am at your service, Inquisitor."

"Understandable," was Blackwall's terse response, but though he put up his own sword, he stayed close to Amelia. A hunted man was never wholly trustworthy, as he well knew.

"A pleasure, Warden Stroud," Amelia greeted the man. "I'll take all the help I can get. I know the Wardens have troubles of their own." She considered him thoughtfully. "There is some speculation that these troubles might have something to do with Corypheus."

Stroud sighed heavily. "I fear it is so," he conceded, his grief at the situation making his Orlesian tones more pronounced. "When my friend here slew Corypheus, Weisshaupt was happy to put the matter to rest. But an archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal, and I feared Corypheus might possess the same power. My investigation uncovered clues, but no proof." He fell silent, but the quality of that silence felt ominous, borne out as he spoke again. "Not long after, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling."

"You never told me," Hawke said softly, her expression dark with sympathy, and Amelia recalled that Anders, the apostate mage who had destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall and started all this madness between templars and mages, had been a Grey Warden himself. Of course Hawke would immediately understand what others did not.

"It was a Grey Warden matter," Stroud told his friend sadly. "I was bound by an oath of secrecy."

"Forgive me for asking, but ... what _is_ the Calling?" Amelia spoke up, uncomfortable with an inquiry that felt as though she was prying. "Is it some sort of Grey Warden ritual?"

The Warden turned his haunted eyes back to her. "The Calling tells a Warden that the Blight will soon claim him," he explained, despite his obvious reluctance. "It starts with dreams, then come whispers in his head. The Warden says his farewells, and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat."

"Maker's breath ..." Amelia's eyes turned instinctively to Blackwall, sudden fear for her friend's state of mind clear in her gaze. Had he been hearing this the whole time? He avoided meeting her eyes, his expression carefully blank.

"And every Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now?" Hawke was horrified. "They think they're dying?"

"Yes," Stroud confirmed in a dull tone. "Likely because of Corypheus. If the Wardens fall, _who_ will stand against the next Blight? It is our greatest fear."

"So thanks to the Calling, Corypheus has them scared." Hawke shook her head. "They're playing _right_ into his hands."

"Is the Calling they're hearing real, or is Corypheus mimicking it somehow?" Amelia asked, hoping it was the latter. That gave them a chance to save the Grey Wardens of Orlais.

"I know not." Stroud sighed, shaking his head. "Even as a senior Warden, I have heard only the vaguest whispers of Corypheus. The _Wardens_ believe that this Calling is real, and they will act accordingly. That is all we know for certain."

Amelia's frown deepened. "You said _all_ Wardens are hearing the Calling," she said worriedly. "Does that include you?"

"Sadly, yes." Stroud passed a weary hand over his face. "It lurks like a wolf in the shadows around a campfire," he said in a dark tone. "The creature that makes this music had never known the love of the Maker, but ... at times, I almost understand it. We _must_ uncover what Corypheus has done and end it. It cannot stand."

His brooding description did nothing to calm her fears. "Blackwall?" she asked, looking to her friend. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Her bearded friend offered her a bleak smile. "I do not fear the Calling, and worrying about it only gives it power," he told her confidently. "Anything Corypheus does will only strengthen my resolve." When her worried expression did not clear, he touched her hand gently. "Don't you worry for me, my lady. I've plenty of reason not to give in."

"You have rare strength, my brother," Stroud praised him. "Even I have considered the Deep Roads on dark nights."

"I'm not strong," Blackwall replied, but he did not go on. He'd said his piece; Amelia was used to these unfinished responses by now.

Reassured that he wasn't suffering greatly, she turned her mind back to the topic at hand, meeting Stroud's gaze. "How can Corypheus make all these Wardens hear the Calling?"

He shook his head, as mystified as she was. "I cannot say," he admitted ruefully. "We know little about him, save that he is dangerous. He is a magister, as well as a darkspawn, and speaks with the voice of the Blight. That lets him affect the minds of Wardens, since we are tied to the Blight ourselves. It must be how he created this false Calling."

"So the Wardens are making some last, desperate attack on the darkspawn?" she asked in concern. There were a hundred things that could go wrong with such an attack, even if Corypheus _wasn't_ involved.

"We are the only ones who can slay archdemons," Stroud reminded her solemnly. "Without us, the next Blight will consume the world."

"But what can we possibly do to prevent more Blights?" Blackwall demanded, justifiably alarmed in Amelia's opinion.

"Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights before we all perish," Stroud told him, nodding at Hawke's shocked inhalation and Amelia's muttered curse. Blood magic, for whatever purpose, never ended well. "Madness, I know. But when I protested the plan, my own comrades turned on me."

"When is she planning to perform this ritual?" Amelia asked him.

"After Satinalia," he answered. "She needs the time to gather as many Wardens as possible. Here." He drew her over to a map laid out on a stained table. "In the Western Approach, there is an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. Meet me there, and we will find answers."

She hesitated, knowing other tasks could be accomplished before then. "If they're not expected to be there until after Satinalia," she said carefully, "- which I have to spend at the Winter Palace to end a war, anyway - then you have time to come back to Skyhold with us. Talk with my commander, my spymaster, and let us see to your safety for a while. With Wardens hunting you, nowhere is safe. Nowhere but the Inquisition."

"She's right, Stroud," Hawke agreed unexpectedly. "You're exhausted, and the Wardens who were here were far too close for comfort. We have a time frame, and at Skyhold, we'll have access to scouts and spies. Perhaps we can find other Wardens who feel the way you and Blackwall do. We could offer them sanctuary. Couldn't we?"

This last was aimed at Amelia, who was already nodding. "Of course," she said firmly. "I didn't let the templars just fade away into Corypheus' shadow; I won't do any less for the Wardens. There's no way of knowing how far Corypheus' Calling has spread."

Stroud considered them both for a long moment. "You are generous," he said finally. "It has been a struggle, I do not deny it. I accept your offer, Inquisitor. You have my thanks."

"And you, mine," she countered in a fervent tone. "Without your courage, we wouldn't know to be wary of the Grey Wardens. I hope theirs is a path we can set on a better course."

"That you even think to try is commendable," the Warden answered. "If you plan to leave in the morning, I will remain here for tonight. Your victory over the dragon will be celebrated in your camp, but I fear I have no heart for celebration."

Amelia smiled sadly. "I understand. Hawke?"

"I'll stay here with Stroud," the Champion told her. "Though the group you saw moved on, there may still be Wardens in the area. Your camp is a little too far for an immediate response in the event of an attack. We'll meet you there at dawn."

"I'll have some food sent up for you," Amelia promised, understanding Hawke's caution well. The ache in her temple was worsening, however. "I am feeling the need to lie down, so we will take our leave. Warden Stroud ... Hawke."

Outside, in the sunshine, she sagged against her staff, saved from an embarrassing fall by Blackwall's hand at her elbow.

"Easy does it, my lady," he murmured to her. "You've had a busy day."

She leaned gratefully into him as he guided her back down the crude path from the cave. "Did I do the right thing, offering the Wardens sanctuary?"

"Can't know for sure," Blackwall told her quietly. "There'll be some who take the offer just for a chance to kill Stroud. But most who do will be trustworthy." He seemed tense as he spoke, but that could only be because Stroud had confirmed it was Corypheus haunting his dreams. That would unsettle anyone.

"And you're _sure_ you can endure this Calling?" she asked once more. "I won't hold you to your oath if it causes you pain."

"I'm a Marcher, my lady," he reminded her with a grin. "We're made of sterner stuff than these southerners."

Despite herself, she laughed, reassured by his stubborn comedy. She already had one man in her life struggling with demons; she was glad she didn't have another. But Stroud had been right about one thing. Though the celebration that night was warm and full throated, she didn't have the heart to make merry with her men. After all, what was a High Dragon when compared with Corypheus? Yet she resolved to return to the search for Samson before Josephine managed to pin her to Skyhold for etiquette lessons. Any blow they could land against Corypheus was important. Removing his general might go some way toward leveling the playing field. Maker knew they needed a victory, and soon. If the Wardens had fallen to the Elder One's influence ... this fight had just become a good deal worse.


	18. Chapter 18

"You do realize you're facing the best in Minrathous."

Cullen laughed at Dorian's posturing. "You haven't even set the board yet."

"I feel it only fair to warn you, dear fellow," the Tevinter mage smiled. "A fine commander should be in possession of all the pertinent facts."

"Such as the arrogance of his counterpart?" Cullen's smile was a little smug as he set up his own side of the board.

"Arrogance? You wound me." Dorian paused to lay a hand over his heart, affecting an air of pained innocence. "Well earned confidence, _if_ you don't mind."

Cullen snorted with laughter. It had taken a while to grow used to Dorian - the man's insistence on flamboyance and outrageous behavior masked an intelligence that was wary of making itself known too often. But with his concern over Amelia's friendship with the mage alleviated, Cullen had taken the time to truly get to know him. They made an odd couple - the flamboyant mage and the reserved commander - but their friendship was one that Cullen had come to treasure. Dorian's recent absence from Skyhold had clearly been traumatic for him, and the commander had made a point of taking his midday meal in the tavern with his friend. He had not attempted to find out the content of that meeting in Redcliffe Amelia had been so concerned about, preferring instead to encourage whatever Dorian wanted to discuss. Thus he had been regaled with everything from the Pavus family tree, to the corruption of the Chantry, to the finer points of Ferelden ale, and all the while, he found himself growing more and more comfortable with the mage.

Comfortable enough, in fact, to share his own fears about Amelia's reliance on Warden Blackwall. "He's more than capable of protecting her," he was saying that afternoon as the two of them settled down to their game in the walled garden of Skyhold. "But the way he looks at her sometimes ..."

"My word, is that insecurity I hear?" Dorian teased as he studied the board. "Or is it the creeping serpent of jealousy slithering through your thoughts?"

Cullen scowled at him, but the expression lacked any real anger. His friend was disconcertingly accurate in his teasing. "Jealousy would suggest that I do not trust her," he pointed out, making a reasonably predictable move. "Which is not true."

"Ah, so it _is_ insecurity." Dorian nodded sagely. "But what, I ask myself, do you have to be insecure about? You have a secure position, an army at your beck and call, and charming wife, who clearly adores you, sharing your bed at every available opportunity."

"That's the only time we spend together," the commander complained mildly. "The only time when she is just Amelia, and she often simply passes out. She has too many burden on her shoulders."

"Sweet Andraste, you're so vigorous that she passes out? I should have snapped you up when I had the chance, family bonds be damned."

"No!" How did he always do this? All it took was a few minutes of conversation with Dorian in the right mood, and Cullen could _feel_ the blush rising to the tips of his ears. "I ... that is, _we_ ... haven't ..."

"Still?" The mage didn't look all that surprised, though. "Is it possible you've forgotten how it's done?"

"I am fully aware of how it's done, thank you." Cullen considered the board in front of him, not really paying attention to the pieces. "She is so weighed down with the responsibility of being Inquisitor. She wasn't trained to be a leader - she still winces when a stranger calls her Herald. It ... It doesn't feel right ... to assume she ..."

"... wants to lick you all over?" Dorian finished the sentence with his usual aplomb.

"Yes. No! Maker's breath ..." Cullen blew out a huff of air, reaching up to rub at his neck. "It's your move."

"Adorable though I am, I highly doubt you wish to invite me into your marriage bed," Dorian smirked back at him.

"On the _board_ ," Cullen clarified, but it was hard not to smile at his friend's incorrigible humor.

"You _could_ put her on a board, I suppose," the mage went on, considering his next move. "For all I know, that is a common form of Ferelden foreplay. She is a Marcher, though."

"Dorian." The word was a warning; as much as Cullen enjoyed the man's company, there were some things he wasn't prepared to be teased about.

"My chevalier advances," was Dorian's innocent reply as he made his move on the board. "Slowly and safely, with absolute chastity. Which would appear to be your problem, my friend."

Distracted from his study of the game, Cullen looked up. "What?"

Dorian's dark eyes were uncomfortably knowing. "Simply put, old chap, you're being too chivalrous," he said, startlingly serious for once. "Amelia is a lovely woman, but she's not what you'd call bold with her desires. I think a seduction is in order. Besiege her modesty."

"The way you are with Bull?" Cullen raised a brow, breaking into a low chuckle as Dorian huffed and rolled his eyes.

"The finer points of subtlety are not necessary with that gloriously muscled ox," he answered calmly. It was no secret that the Tevinter mage and Qunari mercenary were frequently keeping company these days. "Though he would probably give you some pointers, were you to ask. That Ben-Hassrath training is certainly wide-ranging."

"I would rather not have my personal affairs become common knowledge," the commander pointed out, sacrificing one mage for a better advantage on the board between them.

"My dear fellow, for all his faults, he is the very soul of discretion," Dorian assured him, snapping up the mage without considering the game. "Your forces are diminishing, commander."

"A small team of highly skilled professionals can lay waste to an entire army," Cullen countered easily. "As our Inquisitor daily proves."

"Ah, I think I see another flaw in your thinking," the mage beamed. "Just who is our Amelia to you? Is she a mage? Herald of Andraste? The Inquisitor?"

"She's my wife," Cullen growled, not liking the line of questioning.

"And yet you refer to her as Inquisitor," Dorian highlighted pointedly. "You _address_ her as Inquisitor. Before all of this, she was simply Amelia. She _needs_ someone to see her still as simply Amelia. Who better than her husband?"

"I don't -"

But he _did_ , didn't he? He'd stopped using her name outside letters and the privacy of her quarters. He'd reduced her importance to him personally, by elevating her importance to Thedas. Even when he spoke of her to others, it was always _The Inquisitor_ , not _Amelia_. Yet it hadn't always been so. In Kirkwall, he had taken an almost absurd pride in taking every opportunity to refer to her as his _wife_. So why was he so reticent now? Under Dorian's knowing gaze, he could feel the shape of the answer. He loved her. And with that love came a crushing fear of hurting her, of doing anything that might drive her away ... yet that careful distance was inexorably widening the gap between them. Without intimacy, that gap was only going to broaden.

Cullen sighed, shaking his head as he made another seemingly inconsequential move. "All right," he conceded reluctantly. "But I have no idea how to change that. Surely it would seem selfish, to be so abrupt."

"Which is why you _seduce_ her," Dorian reiterated. He frowned at the board. "Ah, _now_ I see your plan. You let me charge your front lines and attack from the rear." He slid a templar over a few squares. "I'm not falling for it."

"A good commander can always adapt to changes in his opponent's strategy," Cullen mused, a little teasing himself now. To be fair, he and Dorian were evenly matched, but playing this game always brought out his competitive side.

"And you _are_ good, commander." the mage smirked back at him, delighted when his own tease produced another of those brilliant blushes. "Think of it as a siege. You have to weaken her defenses before you storm her battlements."

"Are you saying I should court my wife?" Cullen asked suspiciously. "Flowers and love notes and terrible poetry?"

"Maker love you, what a dreadful idea." Dorian laughed. "You're not Orlesian. Nor, I hasten to add, are you in a position where you need to _earn_ the right to her time. She is, as you say, your wife. Subtlety is your friend here."

"I don't have the first idea what you're talking about," Cullen confessed, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Touch her."

Cullen gaped at his friend. "What?"

Dorian's laughter echoed across the garden, raising curious glances and unintended smiles at the infectious sound. "Your face is a picture!" he crowed, letting his merriment fade in a long sigh. "Oh, my dear Cullen, you are a treasure."

Cullen's expression darkened, flustered by his companion's teasing. "Shall we talk about something else?"

"Not until you understand what I'm saying," Dorian told him firmly. "I have no doubt that you are more than proficient when it comes to the act. What you need is for Amelia to _crave_ your presence in that way."

"By touching her." To say Cullen was skeptical was something of an understatement.

"Whenever you can," his friend agreed. "No grand gestures, nothing indecent. You spend all that time in the war room - what's to stop you from touching her as you plan our next moves? Let your fingers linger on her skin whenever the opportunity presents itself, stand a little closer than you might usually do, speak a little softer so she has to lean close to hear. Don't draw attention to what you're doing. And when those gloriously erotic thoughts cross your mind, make eye contact with her. Let her _see_ how much you want her."

"Oh, I ... I couldn't do that," Cullen objected, feeling himself blush once again. Quite how Dorian knew that his mind strayed often to those _gloriously erotic thoughts_ was beyond him, and deeply embarrassing to consider. "I-I shouldn't be thinking of her that way."

"Who _is_ she, Cullen?" Dorian asked sharply.

"The Inq-" Cullen cut himself off with a defeated sigh. "Amelia. My wife."

"And, pray tell, just how _should_ a husband be thinking of his wife?" That impossible brow was arched perfectly above a pursed smile as the mage waited for the penny to drop.

"All right," Cullen grumbled, removing Dorian's second templar from the board. "It doesn't come naturally to me."

"Then you _make_ it happen until it _is_ second nature," the mage told him. "Enjoy your fantasies when they come to you. Get used to imagining her in all sorts of debauched situations - in your bed, across your desk, in the confessional of the chapel - and I guarantee you won't be stumbling over that pesky title much longer."

"I do _not_ intend to debauch my wife in the chapel!" Cullen protested, probably a little too loudly. Voices carried in the garden; no doubt that little outburst would join the annuls of gossip within the hour.

"Spontaneity adds spice - planning everything in advance will make it feel clinical," Dorian agreed, half-teasing, half-serious. He chuckled at the look on his friend's face. "All right, I'll have mercy. But not on the board. My dear fellow, you're looking death in the face."

"There's still life in this army yet," Cullen countered, neatly taking his opponent's divine with a pawn he'd been patiently positioning for the last fifteen moves.

"So the Chantry falls." Dorian accepted this blow philosophically, repositioning his king in response. "But the Chantry is not the ruler, and he still holds all the cards."

Cullen grinned. "Gloat all you like, I have this one."

"Are you ... _sassing_ me, commander?" the mage asked mildly, approval radiating from him as he smiled. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"Why do I even ...?" A shadow fell over the board - Amelia, released from her never-ending fitting with the seamstress Josephine had hired to outfit them for the upcoming ball at Halamshiral. Cullen lurched to his feet. "Inquisi - Amelia!"

The smile he got for using her name was worth the clumsy delivery. Cullen felt his expression soften as he met her gaze, forgetting for a moment that they weren't alone. With the weather turning crisp as autumn advanced onward, she wore a sturdy leather vest over her red shirt, a scarf about her neck, and even a little disheveled from the persistence of an Orlesian seamstress, he thought she looked absolutely lovely. Dorian, however, wasn't the sort to accept being forgotten.

"Leaving, are you?" he asked cheerfully. "Does this mean I win?"

Cullen hesitated, torn between conceding the game to spend time with Amelia, or soundly trouncing Dorian for that excruciating conversation they had only just finished with. It was a surprisingly hard decision to make, but Amelia decided it for him, evidently remembering how often they had played together in years gone by, and how often he had enjoyed winning once she was good enough to offer a challenge.

"Please," she told them both, gesturing to the board. "Don't stop on my account."

Relieved, Cullen smiled once more. "All right," he said, retaking his seat with a nod to Dorian. "Your move."

"You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory," Dorian told him, making a move which _might_ have won him the game if Cullen hadn't been the one to set it up in the first place. "You'll feel much better."

"Really?" With an air of absolute innocent, the commander put his opponent's king in checkmate. "Because I just won, and I feel _fine_." He chuckled at the look of disgust on Dorian's face, gratified to hear Amelia's soft laughter echoing his.

"Don't get smug." The Tevinter mage rose from his seat, evidently a graceful loser, despite his words. "There will be no living with you. Now, fair cousin, I take it the ladies are waiting in breathless anticipation to fit _me_ into one of those tasteless uniforms?" he asked Amelia, who snorted at his description of their ball attire.

"They're quivering with excitement at the very thought of you," she teased her friend warmly.

"It would never do to disappoint them." Dorian sighed affectedly, offering her a grin as he passed. "There will be a rematch, commander. A good campaign requires strict planning and discipline."

Cullen just about kept himself from grimacing at that parting shot, half-risen from his own seat once more. His gaze turned to Amelia, finding her smiling at him in that innocent way that made certain parts of his body want to stand up and take notice. "I should return to my duties as well," he heard himself say, feeling a thrill at the fleeting disappointment that colored her face. "Unless ... unless _you_ would care for a game?"

Amelia's moment of disappointment fled at his invitation, her warm smile reappearing as she stepped forward. "Prepare the board, commander."

Relieved, and pleased, with her agreement, Cullen resumed his seat, reaching to gather the game pieces back to their rightful positions as she took up the chair Dorian had so recently vacated. It felt ... good, familiar, to glance up and see her there, tendrils of dark hair escaping from her braided bun to brush her face as she took a moment to study the board between them before making her first move.

"So, what is this campaign you're planning with Dorian?" she asked curiously.

Cullen felt the blush start at his neck and creep upward. "I ... he's been offering insight," he came up with, not quite answering her question but hoping it would be enough to still the advance of the blush rising on his face.

"I didn't know we had any operations in Tevinter," she said, her voice thankfully free of any suspicion. "Not since those templars we sent dealt with his friend's problem."

"It's a domestic affair," he told her, warming to his half-truth. "Not serious enough to concern you with. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it to him, but now he seems determined to plan every detail for me."

She laughed softly. "At least he's helping. I'm glad you two have become friends."

If he'd had an ulterior motive for befriending Dorian, her soft smile in that moment would have been reward enough. She was very fond of her cousin from Tevinter, after all, and it meant the world to her to have the only two remaining members of her family getting along. As it stood, her approval was simply the icing on the cake. But he still found himself smiling back at her, pleased that she was pleased with him. "He has grown on me," he admitted in amusement, "though I could do without the graphic descriptions of his sex life."

Another laugh erupted from her at that. "I never thought I'd hear you say anything like that," she giggled, resting her chin in her hand as she surveyed his last move. "Though I think it can more reasonably be called a _love_ life at this point. Neither of them has ... strayed, since they started keeping company."

He stared at her, bemused by the confidence with which she expression that notion. "How do you even know that?"

"Simple gossip around Skyhold will tell you that Bull's stopped visiting his horde of admirers at night," she shrugged, as though this was obvious. "And Dorian seems to need to talk to me about it. He's very vulnerable under all that debonair bluster. I might have to warn Bull against breaking his heart."

"I would pay good coin to be there when you do," Cullen chuckled fondly. Though she had come on a great deal, and there were times when her tongue was sharp enough to scratch diamond, she still had difficulty being stern with the people she loved. And she did love her motley band of friends.

"I can be scary," she protested mildly, a small smile growing under his amused gaze. "Not very effectively, but I _can_."

"And, of course, it is the thought that counts," he murmured teasingly. How long had it been since he'd felt this relaxed, this much _himself_ , in her company? Too long, certainly - not since before she'd left Kirkwall. Ironic, that it took a game of opposing sides to remind him how well they meshed together. Dorian would be proud of him ... and speaking of Dorian, the mage's advice came to mind as Cullen watched her reach for her chevalier. "I wouldn't make that move if I were you. May I?"

At her surprised but acquiescing nod, he covered her hand with his own on the little mounted figure, only then remembering that his gloves were tucked into his belt. Though they slept side by side each night she was in Skyhold, this was the first direct contact they had shared outside her quarters in months. He drew her hand over the board, depositing the piece in a better spot ... and heard Dorian's voice in his mind's ear. _Let your fingers linger_. And so he did, letting his callused thumb stroke over her unmarked palm in an innocent caress that made her cheeks color as she drew her hand back. But she didn't look displeased with his touch, far from it. Perhaps there _was_ something to Dorian's advice, after all.

Biting her lip, Amelia smiled almost shyly, rubbing her own thumb across her palm as she tore her gaze from his, looking down at the board to discover the mistake he had prevented her from making. "I'd forgotten how good you are at this," she said in a soft tone.

Buoyed up by the color on her cheeks and the warmth in her eyes, Cullen took the opening she offered with confidence. "As a child, I played this with Mia," he told her, shifting a piece of his own. "She would get this stuck up grin whenever she won, which was all the time."

"I did wonder where you learned that expression," she teased him, her voice fond behind her smile. "I've seen it a few times myself."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Years of losing taught me to enjoy my wins," he defended himself. "Anyway, Branson and I practiced for _weeks_ together. We were determined that _one_ of us was going to beat her. The look on her face when I finally won ..." He grinned at the memory, that victory still sweet after all these years. "I wonder if she still plays."

"Maybe I should ask her for advice on how to beat you," Amelia suggested, eyes wide in consternation as she watched him take one of her priests and put her king in direct danger.

"She would relish the challenge, I have no doubt," he smiled comfortably. "I do not write to them as often as I should."

"Of this, I am painfully aware," she chuckled in a playful tone. "She's writing to _me_ now. She wasn't very complimentary about you in that first letter."

Cullen snorted in amusement as he considered her strategy on the board. She was already on course to lose, unless ... "I'm sure she wasn't," he agreed with his wife, knowing Mia's colorful turn of phrase intimately. "Have you heard from any of your own family recently?" He didn't mean her father and brother, both of whom he would happily drop down a well if given the chance, but her extended family, which extended quite a way.

"My great-aunt, Lucille, managed to get a letter past Josephine," she replied, her voice rich with amusement of her own. "She wants to throw a ball in honor of the Inquisition, to prove that not all Trevelyans have disowned me."

He grimaced openly. "Isn't it enough that we have to appear at the Winter Palace?"

"Don't look so worried," Amelia laughed. "I was very diplomatic, but _very_ firm. No balls until at least Corypheus is dead. I did encourage her to raise our reputation in the Marches, though."

"I'm sure Josephine would be proud," he complimented her. "Is this the Great-Aunt Lucille who insisted on throwing that ball to mark our one-year anniversary?"

" _That_ Great-Aunt Lucille, yes," she confirmed with a nod.

"Maker, that was a terrible evening," he groaned, surprised he remembered it so vividly. "Why in the world did she invite so many Orlesians?"

"Fashion, I think," she mused, though there was no way to be certain. Lucille Trevelyan often did things for no reason at all. "It wouldn't have been so bad for you, if you hadn't insisted on wearing your armor."

"Sweet Andraste, hours of endless enquiries about what was under my surcoat," he complained, a blush staining his cheeks at the memory. "And tortured innuendos about my sword. I was receiving letters from complete strangers for weeks afterward, trying to discover if I was open to having a mistress. Female _or_ male."

"You could have avoided a lot of that if you had just deigned to dance with me," she reminded him, her smile suggesting she was enjoying teasing him about one interminable evening, five years in the past.

"I don't dance," he told her stubbornly. "At any rate, if I had been dancing, I wouldn't have heard that slimy baron offer to ... to ..."

"To fulfill my every carnal desire," she completely the sentence when he trailed off. "He seemed to be under the impression that all templars take a vow of chastity, as I recall. Hands everywhere. Lucille has always maintained it was the highlight of the evening, watching you throw him into the fountain."

"I'm delighted she enjoyed it," Cullen murmured wryly.

"She wasn't the only one," Amelia assured him rather cheerfully. "The cling of his soggy silk that night saved quite a few lords and ladies from a crushing disappointment at a later date. As I understand it, he'd been making claims that certainly did not have an anchor in reality, as we could all see after you'd made your feelings clear."

He stilled, shocked by what he was hearing from his sweet, modest wife. Not only that she'd looked, but that she'd been aware enough of the gossip to understand that the baron had been attempting to seduce every man and woman in the room. He was impressed, though, if he was brutally honest. He'd never really given her enough credit for how observant she was when surrounded by her peers. "I'm not going to ask," he said finally, quiet laughter bubbling free to mingle with her own in the autumn-touched garden.

"Oh, I've missed this," she said as her laughter faded, leaving a tender smile on her face that was just for him. "We should spend more time together."

His own smile gentled, touched by the desire she expressed to share his company. Could it be that Dorian was right about her feelings for him? "I would like that," he confessed, his voice soft with loving shyness.

"So would I," she answered in kind, sharing his shy smile as their eyes met over the board.

"You said that," he whispered, almost afraid to hope that this strangely intimate moment was truly happening.

She blushed, biting her lip, and suddenly he found himself fixated by her mouth. Soft lips he had not yet plundered as he longed to called to him, so near and yet too far to reach out and pull her close. Yet that did not check the sudden flourish of his imagination as, in his mind's eye, he pulled her into his lap, their game forgotten. She would curl to him as his lips hungered for hers, sharing that greed only to gasp as his fingers found the clasps of her tunic, flicking each open with deliberate slowness as his mouth trailed over the smooth softness of her throat. In his imagination, she was tender and willing, arching into his touch with a soft groan as his hand found the bounty hidden beneath her tunic ... and in reality, he found himself shifting in his seat as those thoughts produced a very physical response. And not just in himself - Amelia's eyes darkened with desire to match his, even as she swallowed and glanced away, blushing and shy, and _wanting_ , under his almost predatory gaze.

"We should ..." _Go to bed_ , his libido demanded, but Cullen was not yet so far gone that he had forgotten the constant presence of eyes and ears all around them. "... finish our game, right?" The flicker of disappointment in her eyes made him smile roguishly, promising himself he would do this again. She was _so_ responsive to just a look; how far could he tease her before she found the courage to be bold with him, he wondered. "My turn, I think?"

Swallowing to wet her throat, she looked down at the board. "I haven't the faintest idea."

He laughed, the sound warm and easy, allowing them both to ease back from the intensity of that silent sharing into gentle companionship over the game laid out between them. It took every ounce of his self control, but he _did_ manage to lose the game, suppressing his desire to win just to see her smile again.

"I believe this one is yours," he said eventually, leaning back to meet her eyes. "Well played."

Amelia scoffed, letting out an incredulous laugh at his gracious defeat. "You _let_ me win," she accused.

Cullen attempted to look innocent. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know," she giggled, shaking her head. "So I'll play again sometime?"

"What makes you think you didn't win fairly?" he asked. He was genuinely curious - he didn't think his strategy had been that obvious. Did she really know him that well?

"Because I haven't played for three years, and you eat, sleep, and breathe strategy," she countered with a fond smile. "That, and I only ever won twice in Kirkwall. You are much better at this game than I will ever be."

"Then we will simply have to play more often, Ame," he challenged her with a smile of his own. "Your grasp of tactics _has_ improved, though, you know."

"Not enough to beat you at chess," she chuckled, glancing up as a shadow fell over them. "Leliana, what brings you out of the bird cage?"

The redheaded spymaster glanced between them, no doubt seeing more in that one glance than Cullen was entirely comfortable with her knowing. "Inquisitor, commander," she greeted them. "A message has arrived from my agents tracking the Tranquil, Maddox." She handed Amelia a small message capsule.

Cullen sat forward, his expression alert as Amelia opened the capsule, unrolling the slip of parchment within to scan the words there. "Well?" he asked, unable to restrain his eagerness.

She looked up, handing him the parchment to read for himself. "They've located Samson," she said tersely. "We can make it in four days if we ride hard. We leave in an hour."

"Josie will not like that," Leliana commented mildly.

"Then you keep her busy until we're gone," Amelia told her, rising to her feet. "We'll be back in time to ride out to Halamshiral - it's still a month away, for goodness' sake. This is more important than etiquette lessons, Leliana."

"I agree." Even Cullen was surprised to hear the spymaster say that, but Leliana _did_ see more than anyone else could imagine. "I have already instructed my agents to advance as far as is feasible while awaiting your arrival. There will be fresh horses at every camp you pass on your way there."

"Thank you, Leliana." Turning away from the spymaster, Amelia met Cullen's gaze solemnly. "One hour," she told him. "With luck, this time he's ours."

He nodded, already striding away to prepare a pack for the journey. After all this time, they had him. Samson wouldn't escape, he was sure of it. He _couldn't_ escape. There were too many questions that needed answers. Four days until he looked into the eyes of his former brother and demanded to know the _why_ that had eluded them since this hunt began. He owed it to every templar, every innocent, that had been corrupted or killed by red lyrium to get those answers, no matter the cost. And if the price he paid was death ... then so be it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was hard work. Action is definitely _not_ my forte!

The stone walls towered above them, a dark mass against the night sky. With great crops of the sickening red lyrium crystals grouped at its foundations and smoke rising in dense clouds to obscure the moons overhead, it looked as though it were perpetually ablaze, smouldering ember-like in honor of the dark stone dragon that crouched over the gates. It looked more like a fortress than a place of worship, yet Leliana's agents had confirmed that _this_ was the ancient Shrine of Dumat, the Old God of Tevinter whom Corypheus had once served - the Old God whose awakening and corruption by the darkspawn had heralded the First Blight all those centuries ago. It seemed somehow fitting that this squatting blot on the landscape should be where he had installed his general.

They had very little time. Though the Inquisition's advance had been stealthy and well coordinated, within an hour of nightfall after the Inquisitor's arrival great billowing clouds of smoke had begun to rise from within the shrine itself. A hasty plan of action had been decided upon - that Amelia and her team would lead the way, striking to the heart of the shrine as shock troops, while the remaining Inquisition soldiers and agents would follow to secure it in their wake.

Amelia paused at the gates briefly, taking stock of her companions. Cassandra stood ready, her face twisted in disgust at the symbol of the Dragon God here in Orlais; Dorian, angry to see such a remnant of his country's dark past still in use, was tense and silent beside the Seeker. The Iron Bull, his gray face impassive, caught her eye and nodded, angling his broad form to open his circle of protection to the fifth member of their group. Cullen was pale in the glow from the red lyrium, his eyes hard and fixed on the moment of capture, adjusting his shield as he awaited the command to move forward.

The commander had been quiet on their forced march here, his entire being focused on the prospect of taking Samson into custody and finally getting some answers from the man. But that focus was not what had Amelia concerned. No, her concern stemmed from his reaction to the vast jutting crystals of red lyrium that dotted the landscape, far more dense and numerous around the shrine than she had seen anywhere since her sojourn into the future at Redcliffe. He had only recently been freed from his dependence on true lyrium, whose song was a gentle melody when compared with the pervasive harshness of the cacophony of the red. Because she herself used lyrium when it was necessary, Amelia was constantly aware of the nauseating invasion of the red poking at her senses, yet she had grown used to resisting the harsh call of the crimson mineral. Cullen, however, had no such experience, no such exposure to the dangerous siren call.

Two days ago, they had entered the proximity of the red lyrium crops, and their effect on the commander had been worrying, to say the least. He had become withdrawn, irritable, snapping with sharp words at the slightest provocation. His nights were no better - the nightmares returned, unrelenting, robbing him of the sleep he so desperately needed now of all times. The second night, he had pitched a separate tent, refusing to disturb _her_ rest with his own fitful slumber. The headaches were also back; constant pain made him pale and drawn, exhausted by the time they reached the shrine. But he refused to retreat, too obsessed with the prize within reach. Her only real consolation was how close the Iron Bull was staying to him. She'd discussed it briefly with the Qunari as they rode, and he had given her his solemn promise to keep a close eye on her husband.

"Cassandra, you're in command," she said, nodding to the Seeker. This had become standard practice when they were entering a fortified building, but Amelia made a point of formally renouncing command for Cullen's sake. He wasn't used to the way they worked.

Cassandra answered her nod with a sharp jerk of her own chin; she understood. "Bull will breach the gates," she ordered calmly. "Dorian and I will secure the first room; Cullen and Amelia, the second, and so on. Skirmish tactics. Do not get out of range of our group. Commander, the Inquisitor is your responsibility - if I order you to shield, you will shield her as well."

Cullen gave her a tense nod, stepping closer to his wife. Perhaps the responsibility of keeping her alive would prevent his zeal to take Samson personally from overwhelming his good sense.

"Good." Cassandra glanced at all of them. "Fast and thorough," she told them. "We want to reach the heart of the shrine before they have time to destroy anything valuable."

"Sounds good to me," Bull agreed, hefting his great double-headed axe. He paused just long enough to meet Dorian's eyes, and charged the great gates.

Within a matter of moments, they were little more than sad splinters, easy for Cassandra and Dorian to rush over and engage the surprised defenders within that entrance way. At the Seeker's yell, it was Cullen and Amelia's turn to charge, dodging around the dirty fight just inside the broken gates to burst through the far door with Bull at their backs. They were met by four archers, and only Cullen's quick raising of his shield saved Amelia from an arrow in the eye. In retaliation, she called down chain lightning, incapacitating three of the archers, and turned her full attention to the last. As Cullen left her side to cut down the nearest red templar, she brought ice and fire to bear on the fourth archer, a combination his armor could not protect him from. Then Cassandra and Dorian were rushing past, and their advance into the temple proper began.

Amelia was obliged to run quite a bit faster with Cullen than she was used to with Blackwall or Cassandra. The commander was a very capable warrior, but he had never had to fight in tandem with a mage before. Frequently, he seemed to forget that she needed to catch her breath to form the incantations that made up her spells, charging off to the next target as she cast and leaving her vulnerable to the red templar shadows that stalked the shrine. The third time that happened, only Dorian's quick thinking saved her from a blow direct to the heart, but not even her friend's barrier could prevent her from being hurled into the path of a charging knight. The blow of that shield knocked her onto her back, her staff skittering away across the debris-covered floor.

"Boss!"

With an almighty roar, Bull hurled his massive axe across the room. The knight looming above Amelia raised his sword, and abruptly fell forward to pin her to the floor, Bull's weapon buried in his back. The sword's blade glanced off her shoulder, deflected by her armor but not enough that she wasn't bleeding from the impact. As the last red templar fell, Cassandra's eyes narrowed.

"Cullen!" she barked, turning to find the commander already advancing toward the next door. "Where is your wife?"

The snarled question brought him up short. He turned, as though expecting to find Amelia at his shoulder. When he did not, real concern flared in his gaze, overtaking his determination to reach Samson for just a moment. "Amelia?"

"Over here." Bull was scowling as he bent to retrieve his weapon, pulling the dead knight off Amelia in the process.

"Ame!" Cullen rushed over to help her to her feet, steadying her as she wheezed and and straightened. His expression faded from that true concern as he noted she wasn't too badly injured, into something unforgiving. "Why weren't you with me?"

"I was casting," she defended herself, trying not to lose her temper with him. She knew his attitude had more to do with the invasive siren song of red lyrium all around them than any real anger with her. "You were gone before the spell was released."

"You should have followed," he snapped, angered by the delay in their advance. Every setback gave Samson more time to escape. "We're too close to -"

" _You_ should have been protecting her!" Dorian burst out, frowning as he looked over at them from where he was healing a long gash on Bull's back. "She wouldn't have come so close to death if you hadn't abandoned her!"

"Death?" Cullen looked back at his wife, only now taking note of how disheveled she was, how many cuts were seeping blood into her clothing and armor. She looked dreadful, and he had a nasty feeling that she wouldn't look so bad if he had been paying more attention to her.

"We are not here for your personal vendetta," Cassandra told him angrily. "Your disregard for orders has already endangered the Inquisitor once. Swear to me, now, that you will stay close to her, Cullen, or you go no further."

"You can't -"

"Yes, she can," Amelia interrupted Cullen's outraged objection, shaken but firm as she met his eyes. "Cassandra is in command. And she's right. This isn't about _you_." She wished she didn't have to be so harsh, but it was _her_ life he had put at risk. Surely she was more important to him than vengeance on Samson. Wasn't she?

He glared at her, his jaw set as he bit down angry words, disliking the truth behind the words that pulled him up by his bootstraps. "Very well," he said, that anger simmering in his voice. "Seeker Pentaghast, I swear by the Maker and Blessed Andraste that I will not leave the Inquisitor's side until this battle is over." At Cassandra's curt nod, he unsheathed his sword once more, barely glancing at Amelia. "At your command."

Behind him, Dorian rolled his eyes to the heavens, but there was no time to coddle bruised egos and hurt pride. With their group ordered once again, they continued their advance onward into a wide courtyard lined with stone dragons. And guarding the enormous door to the heart of the shrine stood a hulking monstrosity Amelia had been afraid they would meet. Ten feet tall, at least, it gave the appearance of an enormous crop of red lyrium that had become sentient and mobile, releasing a juddering howl as they came into view.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen swore at the sight of it. "What _is_ that?"

"They call it a behemoth," Amelia told him, her voice tight with tension. She did not have good memories of any of her fights with these things. "You'll have to get in close with the others, but be ready to disengage on Cassandra's order and come back to me. We've done this before."

He acknowledged her words with a brief nod, gripping his sword as he moved to join Iron Bull and Cassandra in their advance. Left behind, Amelia stepped to Dorian's side, the two mages exchanging a grave glance. The first time they had faced one of these things had been at Haven, and that fight had been a near disaster. Since then, however, they had fought a few behemoths, discovering the fine art that was bringing one down without horrific casualties.

The plan was very simple - the mages focused their efforts on keeping protective barriers up and blinding the behemoth while the warriors got in close to systematically wear down the creature's defenses. At that point, the _real_ danger set in. The behemoth was a being of pure red lyrium, the crystal as strong and as brittle in this living form as it was when inert. With each hit, cracks began to appear in the glowing surface until finally Cassandra broke away.

"Disengage!" the Seeker ordered, whirling out of the behemoth's reach. Cullen and Iron Bull were only moments behind her - the Qunari leaping over the stone balustrade to take cover behind the nearest stone dragon, Cullen sliding down the same stone balustrade to stumble to his feet beside his wife. "Amelia, do it! Cullen ... shield!"

As the behemoth howled and Cassandra pulled Dorian behind her own shield, Amelia planted her feet, raising her marked hand as she focused. The magic of the rifts sparked in her grasp, given clarity by the Anchor, a sensation of pressure building just out of reach until suddenly it burst free, a massive stone fist hurtling toward the lumbering hulk. A moment later, Cullen snatched her close to his chest, dropping them both down onto their knees to bring his shield up between them and the lyrium monster. As the Fade-stone fist made contact, a deafening thunder-crack shook the temple around them. In the cacophonous rumble, the behemoth stilled, the bright glow at its heart fading as the cracks spread over the entirety of its form ... and shattered into shards uncounted. A deadly hail of those vicious fragments struck Cullen's shield, the impact making his arm shake as he pulled her closer still behind the safety of that sturdy barrier. But finally, all was still.

It seemed an age before they heard their companions moving - the groan from Dorian as he rose from his knee behind Cassandra's shield, the crash as Bull pushed his temporary shield of debris from over his own body. And still Cullen knelt, tense and unmoving, his arm banded tightly about Amelia's waist. She raised her unmarked hand, gently touching his cheek.

"Cul," she whispered to him. "It's safe to get up now." When he still didn't move, her hand cupped his chin, raising his eyes to her own. "You're safe. I'm safe. It's done."

His gaze was almost hungry as he searched her eyes, allowing only her to see how shaken he truly was, and she suddenly realized what must be going through his mind. Her description of his death, seen in a future that would now never come, had been eerily similar to the behemoth's end, that final explosion of crystals which sought to infect the unwary and continue this terrible seeding that was killing their world. It was one thing to read about such a death, yet quite another to take a hand in facilitating one. Cullen was shaken to the core to know that, in another life, it could have been him; that, in this life, they had just destroyed a former brother of his who might not have been willing to become the monster red lyrium had made of him.

At a loss as to how she could help him, Amelia drew her thumb over his lips. "This is _Samson's_ doing," she reminded him, as firmly as she dared. "Remember that."

"Samson," he repeated, letting her calm confidence wash over him. He looked up finally, relaxing his grip about her waist as they both got to their feet. "That's it," he said, nodding to the door the behemoth had been guarding. "The heart of his command."

"We haven't seen or heard any sign of him," she said, her tone hard with suspicion. But surely Corypheus didn't have so many resources that he would throw away so much to effect a trap?

"No," Cullen agreed, shaking off his fear as he started to ward the great door. "Maker, tell me he hasn't fled ..."

He surged forward, Bull and Cassandra at his side, and together the three warriors forced that dark portal open, stumbling back as an intense wave of heat and smoke rushed from the hall beyond to choke the courtyard in which they stood. Even at the foot of the steps, where Dorian and Amelia stood, they could feel the blast of that heat, forcing themselves upward to peer through the haze and smoke with streaming eyes. Flames leapt from every flammable surface in the hall, an impassable barrier beyond which they could see another door standing open. The inner sanctum beyond seemed untouched by the fire that barred their way - a hopeful sign, if only they could reach it before the flames did.

Coughing, Amelia tugged her scarf up over her nose and mouth as Dorian raised his hands, casting ice over the raging flames before them. The ice turned swiftly to water, then vapor, but his efforts bore some fruit. Slowly, the steps that lead down into the burning hall were made passable, the fire retreating beneath the Tevinter mage's persistence. Bodies lay amid the flames - red templars caught in the blaze, either too stubborn to run, or sacrificed without a care.

"This place is already half-destroyed," Amelia rasped, dismayed by what they had found.

Beside her, Cullen growled in frustration, his own scarf wrapped over the lower part of his face. "Samson must have ordered his templars to sack his headquarters so _we_ couldn't."

"Looks like he cut his losses and ran," Bull commented, watching as Dorian's spells doused the flames closest to the doors. "Nicely done, _kadan_."

"You know me, _amatus_ ," Dorian replied to his lover flippantly, his tone belying the sheer effort it took to bring his mana to bear on the problem at hand. "I can't resist a good dousing."

Cassandra rolled her eyes at them. "We've dealt Samson a blow," she pointed out. "Bull, hold this position. Amelia, would a barrier spell protect us from the flames?"

Amelia frowned thoughtfully. "If we stay close together and move quickly, it should," she agreed, glancing at Dorian for his opinion. He nodded, assuring her that she was right. "How many of us will I be holding this over?"

"You, myself, and Cullen," the Seeker said firmly. "Dorian, can you -"

"- keep dousing?" the Tevinter mage interrupted with a charming smile. "I would rather let the festering pit burn, but for you, dear lady, anything."

"Let's get on with it, then," Cullen said from between clenched teeth as Cassandra pulled an embarrassed face at Dorian's teasing. His temper was only barely held in check, spurred into simmering rage by the constant song of the crimson mineral all around them.

"Stay close," Amelia warned her two companions as they entered the still burning hall.

She felt them fall in behind her, extending her consciousness to make sure she had them both covered with a barrier that began to decay the moment she raised it. With the rafters above groaning and the floor beneath sagging in alarming fashion, it was a harrowing journey, each step threatening to be their last as they plunged headlong through the flames. Yet they emerged unscathed from the those flames, the room beyond choked with red lyrium in jutting geodes, but no fire. Amelia released an explosive breath as they stepped free, the barrier she held sputtering and dying as she dropped her hands to her knees, breathing hard through the exertion she had just endured to get them here.

"Are you all right?" Cassandra asked her, casting a disapproving frown at Cullen's back as he marched smartly ahead without a thought for his wife.

Amelia nodded, breathless but unharmed. "I just ... just need to catch my breath," she wheezed, straightening as Cullen called urgently from the other side of the doorway.

"Amelia!"

"He seems to have forgotten that you outrank him," the Seeker observed darkly.

"This means a lot to him, Cassandra," the mage reminded her friend in a quiet tone. "And the red lyrium isn't helping. He's never been so close to so much of it before." She raised her voice as they, too, entered the very heart of the inner sanctum. "What is it?"

"Down here." Cullen's voice drew her attention to the left, to where he knelt beside a figure slumped on the floor.

"Maddox ..." For a moment, she was relieved to see the Tranquil alive, dropping to her knees beside him with bright memories of his steady hands working on her staff, on her projects, helping her whenever she asked him; a constant presence in her life in Kirkwall. But the hand that took hers was too cold, the eyes too unfocused.

"Hello, Amelia." Like all Tranquil, there was no inflection of emotion in Maddox's voice as he greeted her, though his words were so quiet she almost missed them. "It is good to see you again."

"It's good to see you, too," she answered, smiling as she squeezed his hand between her own. A dark stain marked his lips - too dark against pale skin that seemed almost gray in the red glow of the lyrium he lay against. "Cullen, something's wrong here."

The commander nodded, his anger suppressed for the moment, at least. "I'll send for the healers," he began, only to be cut off as Maddox spoke again.

"That ... would be a waste, Knight-Captain Cullen," the Tranquil said painfully. "I drank my entire supply of Blightcap essence. It ... won't be long now."

"Oh, Maddox ... there was no need," Amelia told him, appalled that he had chosen to end his own life rather than be captured by them. "We never meant you harm. We only wanted to ask you some questions."

"Yes," Maddox agreed weakly. If he had not been Tranquil, she might almost have thought he was smiling as he looked up at her. "That is what ... I could not allow. You are my friend, I cannot ... cannot lie to you. It is ... better this way."

A heavy sigh passed her lips, defeated by a death not even a mage could prevent. "Why are you alone, Maddox?" she asked him softly, her free hand rising to stroke the hair off his clammy brow. "No one should face death alone."

"I am not alone," he murmured faintly. "I knew that ... you would be here. You ... and the Knight-Captain." He paused, drawing in a labored breath. "I destroyed the camp ... with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our deaths ensured ... Samson had time to escape."

"You threw your lives away for _Samson?"_ Cullen was aghast, his anger flaring once more at all this death for the sake of a man he no longer considered worthy of even remembering with kindness. "Why?"

"Samson saved me ... even before he needed me," Maddox told him, each word losing strength as he spoke. "He gave me purpose again. I ... wanted to ... help ..."

His head tilted onto his shoulder, the life fleeing from his eyes as Amelia felt his hand grow limp in her grasp. She bit her lip, feeling tears fill her own eyes as she reached to lower his eyelids with gentle fingers. Her lips would not form the words, yet beside her, Cullen intoned the chant for the departed, both of them grieving in their own way for a former friend whom they had not been able to save.

"We can't leave him here," she said softly, folding Maddox's hands together against his chest. "We failed him. The least we can do is see him properly laid to rest."

Even with his jaw clenched in fury at the terrible waste of life, Cullen had compassion enough to agree. "I'll have someone take care of it," he promised her. "If even Samson did his best for Maddox, we can do no less."

"We should look around," Cassandra suggested from behind them. "He may have missed something."

Raising her head, Amelia nodded. There was no time to grieve. "You're right," she agreed with Cassandra, turning her eyes to Cullen. "Don't touch the lyrium," she warned him firmly. They were surrounded by the stuff, its nauseating song a blistering chorus that could not be endured for long.

He scowled at her. "I am not a child, Inquisitor," he countered coolly.

"No, you're not," she agreed in a calm tone. "You're my husband, you're too angry to think straight, and I am worried about you."

He hesitated at her sincere words, his mouth snapping shut on a harsh reply. He knew he had not behaved well thus far, pushed to breaking point by the lyrium song all around and deeply frustrated by Samson's escape. He had no excuses, and was not the kind of man to offer any, accepting all guilt and blame for his own failures. Samson's escape _was_ a failure; Maddox's death, another failure. If they were to salvage anything from this, he would have to pull himself together and keep the anger at bay just a little while longer.

"All right," he conceded, choosing to let her lead. "After you, Ame."

Relieved he was at last seeing sense, Amelia rose to her feet. With Cassandra watching their backs, they began a methodical search of the inner sanctum, these rooms that must have belonged to Samson until very recently. Everywhere showed signs of a hasty evacuation, with only the most essential items taken in his rush to escape the advancing Inquisition. His bedroom showed them only the depth of his addiction to the red lyrium - dozens of bottles lay piled along the walls, all empty, licked clean. Somehow, he must have developed an extraordinary resistance to the red, judging by just how much he seemed to be taking, yet he retained his faculties and his freedom of movement. The lyrium wasn't growing inside him as it had done with so many others. What had Corypheus done to give him such resistance? It didn't bear thinking about. The study, too, gave them little to go on - only a nonsensical message addressed to Cullen, who dismissed it out of hand. There was nothing Samson had to say that he wanted to hear.

It was the outer room that gave them some hope, though. Tucked into a corner, amid two enormous red lyrium crystals, was a workbench of some kind, scattered over with pieces of the red that had clearly been worked with the unique tools that projected from one of those jutting spikes of lyrium. Wincing in the onslaught from the singing mineral, Cullen bent closer to examine the tools.

"The fire couldn't destroy these entirely, whatever they are," he commented, his voice deeply strained. They had been in proximity to the red for too long; it was becoming painful to resist that toxic, beguiling song.

"This must have been Maddox's workshop," Amelia answered, frowning as she looked up at him. "Are you all right?"

"I can endure it," he promised her, though his teeth were gritted and his sweat glistened on his pale brow. "What are these?"

Bracing herself, she leaned closer to inspect the tools that had been set into the crystal over the bench. "They seemed to be implements for working lyrium," she said thoughtfully. "But I've never seen anything so advanced."

"Tranquil often make their own tools," Cullen mused, his own frown pensive as he worked his way through to the logical conclusion. "Dagna should be able to make sense of these. If Maddox used them to make Samson's armor ..."

Amelia nodded slowly, feeling a thrill of triumph fill her chest. "Dagna could use them to _un_ make it."

Despite the pain, despite the mistakes, despite his cutting disappointment, a wolfish smile spread over Cullen's strained face. "We have him," he breathed, laughing mirthlessly at the bitter cost of their discovery.

Pleased that they had _something_ to show for this terrible excursion, Amelia nodded once more, moving to join Cassandra as Cullen began to carefully remove the tools from their crystalline bed. With luck, his gloves were thick enough to protect him from that close contact with the red lyrium. The Seeker was tense, uneasy with what they had found and what they had endured to get here.

"Are we to leave?" she asked Amelia. "The fire is almost contained."

Amelia nodded to her. "The sooner we're away from here, the happier I will be," she confessed uncomfortably, glancing tellingly back at Cullen. "I'm not sure we're out of danger yet."

"The lyrium?" Cassandra frowned in concern.

"On top of losing Samson," the mage murmured. "I've never seen him like this, not even when he was beginning to object to Meredith's methods. He's never been so close to losing control in all the time I've known him."

"But we have gained an advantage here, yes?" Cassandra asked, needing to know they had not simply wasted their time here. "We have denied Samson his headquarters."

"And we may have found a way to negate that armor of his, too," Amelia told her. "if Dagna's even half as good as she says she is, she'll be able to do something with those tools to give us an advantage there."

"Leaving the commander behind might be advantage enough," the Seeker muttered. She was clearly planning a long talk with Cullen about the way he had allowed his personal wishes to interfere with the safety of their party on this mission.

"Be gentle with him," Amelia warned her friend. "He -"

An ominous crack suddenly drew their attention to where Cullen was struggling to pull the last of Maddox's tools loose. The lyrium was laced with hairline fractures, its crimson glow dimming in a manner that was hideously familiar to practiced eyes.

"Cullen, get back!"

She lurched toward her husband, grasping the back of his mantle to wrench him away, turning her body to shield his as he stumbled back from the workbench. With an ear-splitting crunch, a section of the infectious crystal shattered. Pain flared along her spine as deadly shards pierced her leather armor, striking deep into her flesh. Her scream echoed through the ancient temple, bringing Dorian and Bull running from the smouldering hall in time to see Cullen and Cassandra gently easing her down onto her stomach.

"Maker's breath!" Dorian swore, dropping to his knees beside his prone cousin. "What happened?"

"The ... the crystal shattered ..." Cullen gasped, staggering back from the sight of his wife so still on the floor. This was _his_ fault; he should have seen the signs that such a shattering was imminent, too focused on Samson to see past his own nose. "Ame, she ... she saved me ..."

"Cullen, your hand," Cassandra told him, nodding to the grip he had on the tools he had salvaged. Blood dripped from between his fingers, the leather of his gloves shredded as the sharp instruments sliced into his palm.

"Blast my hand, is she -" He leaned over Dorian, snarling in anger as the mage pushed him back.

"You're in my light," Dorian told him firmly, one hand holding the commander back as he tried to focus on peeling the leather and cloth away from Amelia's back as Cassandra cut it free.

Amelia keened in agony, her fingers scratching against the sandy floor as she fought not to move. The sound tore at Cullen's heart, and he lurched forward once again, held back this time by the Iron Bull, who refused to allow him any closer. Dorian and Cassandra were the healers of this group; he and Cullen were surplus to requirements in this situation, no matter their concern. As the protective layers came away, the extent of Amelia's injuries were laid bare, and even Bull winced at the juicy, bloody mess that was her back. The lyrium fragments had struck deep, most already broken into glittering red sand that was even now working its way into her blood. No amount of cleaning would remove them all from her wounds.

"Sweet Andraste," Dorian breathed, utterly horrified. "There's no way to be sure I can get it all out."

"What?" Cullen's attempt to step forward was checked by Bull's tight grip on his shoulder. "Why aren't you doing anything?"

"Easy, Cullen," the Qunari rumbled, shaking him to keep him in place. "This isn't as simple as it looks."

"Cassandra ..." Amelia's voice was a rasping rush of breath as she twisted her head to find her friend's gaze. Troubled eyes turned dull with pain pierced the Seeker's with dreadful purpose. "Burn it out."

Cassandra stared at her, aghast. What she was asking was terrible, but ... there _was_ wisdom in that request. "Are you sure?" she asked, knowing that what was proposed would not be the easiest to endure.

"Dorian can ... heal as you go," Amelia ground out. " _Please_ ... I can feel ... the crystals ..."

Dorian met Cassandra's solemn gaze with gravity of his own. He was tired, his mana depleted, but he would do anything for his cousin, his best friend, the closest thing he had to true family in the world. "It's worth a try," he admitted reluctantly, reaching for the blue lyrium vial in his belt pouch.

"No!" Cullen roared with sudden fury, panic flaring as he fought against Bull's grip. "You'll kill her!"

"She is already dying," the Seeker told him, her expression bleak. "This is the only way. Bull, get him out of here."

She didn't even glance up as the horned mercenary dragged Cullen bodily out of the sanctum, ignoring his protests at every step. The commander was suffering enough with guilt and shame; he didn't need to watch what was about to happen. Cassandra shut the furious voice out as she stilled herself, seeking that place within that was her peace and her focus. She could _hear_ the tainted lyrium in her friend's bloodstream, narrowing that focus to the blinding beam she always visualized in the moments before she unleashed her unique gift.

Amelia's screams echoed through the Shrine of Dumat, her pain felt by every one of the Inquisition's soldiers who heard her. It was only the Iron Bull's steel grip that kept Cullen from surging back into the inner sanctum. The Qunari had him pinned to a wall with one hand spread over his chest, talking quickly and quietly in an attempt to keep the commander calm. With the Inquisitor down, their soldiers were looking to Cullen for some reassurance that she was only injured; with Iron Bull forcing the issue, he managed to pull himself together, swallowing his fear for the woman he loved, a fear that had overridden his pain and anger entirely. A fear that brought with it an unhealthy dose of guilt. This would never have happened if he had not insisted upon coming here in the first place.

As those agonized cries dwindled to nothing, many cast tense glances toward the heart of the shrine, afraid of what they were about to see as figures came into view. Was the Inquisitor dead? Had all this been for nothing? Cullen couldn't bear to look, even as relieved cheers rose all about him.

"Cullen." Iron Bull's voice was soft, but firm. "Look. Turn your head and _look_ at her."

Somehow, there was no denying that voice. Deeply reluctant, afraid to find anger or blame in the eyes he knew so well, Cullen forced himself to look, the breath rushing from his lungs in one dizzying flood of relief. Leaning heavily on Cassandra, her armor in tatters, Amelia was upright; her skin deathly pale and a discernible shake in her limbs, but walking. She was alive. More than that - she caught his eye and offered him a smile so forgiving that it _hurt_. He didn't deserve her forgiveness, not after this. He didn't deserve _her_.

Shaking free of Bull's grip, he turned to walk away, needing to be away from the oppression of the lyrium that loomed over him from the walls of this forsaken place. Every mistake, every failure, they had all been his fault. He could _not_ be allowed to endanger her again.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back to Skyhold. Fair warning, the next stage is the Winter Palace, so it might be slightly epic or broken into multiple chapters. Either way, it'll be a bit of a wait.

_My dearest Amelia,_

_The time has finally come for me to admit a truth I have been trying to deny for years. I am not worthy to be your husband. I am barely even a whole man. My many flaws and myriad mistakes should not have to be your burden. You carry so much on your shoulders already; you should not have to carry me, too. I thought I could be the man you need me to be. After our misadventure at the Shrine of Dumat, I know that I cannot._

_My pride lead us there; my arrogance rushed us into battles we were not ready for. It is a testament to your skill, and the skill of your friends, that none of those incidental skirmishes ended in disaster. My obsession with capturing Samson put you in direct danger more than once. My anger at his escape lead to your almost dying to save my worthless life. If I had not given way to that anger, I would have seen the danger. I cannot forgive myself for the agony you endured on my behalf._

_It is my intention to renounce my position as Commander of the Inquisition. If I cannot even protect you, then I am not fit to lead these men and women. I will not hold you to vows we made before the world went mad. Find another who is worthy of you._

_Forgive me._

_\- Cullen_

 

* * *

 

Amelia stormed through the corridors of Skyhold, the letter clenched in her fist. She had woken to find it on the bed beside her, where Cullen _should_ have been. They had returned from the shrine late last night, and though he had been distant on the journey, she could never have expected _this_. That he did not even so her courtesy to tell her to her face was the last straw for a temper already stretched thin. Their mission at the shrine had been a disaster, and this afternoon, they were leaving for Halamshiral and the Winter Palace. He couldn't do this to her, not now. Not after everything they had been through together.

"Inquisitor, I need -"

"Not now, Josephine," she ground out from between clenched teeth, marching swiftly past the ambassador's office without a backward glance.

"But the preparations for the Winter Palace -"

"- can wait!" Amelia snapped, slamming through the door that lead from the hall to Solas' study.

The elven mage glanced up from his packing as she stalked through his private space, wisely keeping any opinions on her state of mind to himself. No one in their right mind interfered with someone _that_ angry. The door to the battlements rocked on its hinges at her passage, the furious flush on her cheeks barely registering the sharp sting of the winter wind as she crossed the stone arch over the lower courtyard to burst in through the door to her husband's office.

"Cullen, I absolutely refuse to -" She broke off, finding herself facing not her husband, but one of his many messengers. The man flinched as she leveled her furious glare onto him. "Where is he?" she demanded, afraid Cullen had already left the castle.

"H-he's ... the commander's, uh ..." He quailed under the Inquisitor's anger. "The armory, Your Worship, to see Lady Cassandra."

"Thank you." The words were brusque, though not unkind, and Amelia turned on her heel, marching back through Solas' study and down to the upper courtyard, holding her anger close to her heart. Despite the many people bustling about, preparing for the Inquisition's journey to Halamshiral, no one dared bar her path, allowing her to pass easily to the armory, from which raised voices were emanating.

"- you asked for my opinion, and I have given it. Why would you expect it to change?"

Amelia slowed, recognizing the frustration in Cassandra's voice. She felt better to know she wasn't the only one who thought this was a bad idea; evidently Cassandra was more than capable of telling Cullen that to his face.

"I expect you to keep your word," Cullen was growling in response. "I can't -"

"You give yourself too little credit," the Seeker insisted.

"She almost _died!_ " he burst out, and even in her anger, Amelia could hear the anguish in his voice as she pushed open the door. "Would you rather save face than admit -" He broke off as Amelia entered, shaking his head. He didn't even meet her eyes as he left.

"Cullen ..."

Cassandra made an indelicate sound. "And people say _I'm_ stubborn," she scoffed. "This is ridiculous."

"What's going on here, Cassandra?" Amelia demanded, though she could feel her fury ebbing. He'd looked so ... _defeated_ ... just now.

"He feels responsible for your injury at the shrine," her friend told her. "He cannot see past the guilt he has assigned to himself."

"But he has nothing to feel guilty for!" Amelia protested vehemently. "I would have done the same for anyone, you _know_ that."

"I do," Cassandra agreed with a short nod. "Not that he is willing to listen." She sighed gustily. "Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him. I refused - it's not necessary. Besides," she added with a frown, "it would destroy him."

"It would." Amelia's voice softened, her anger fled. She knew as well as Cassandra - as well as everyone here - that Cullen was where he was meant to be. Letting out a sigh of her own, she sat heavily. "Why didn't he talk to me?" she asked, finally feeling the hurt that had been lurking at the edges of her fury. "Why leave me a note, and try to sneak away behind my back?"

"Because he loves you," Cassandra told her gently. "And that love will not allow him to make you watch him walk away. He believes this is the only way to protect you."

"Of course he does." Running a hand over her hair, Amelia closed her eyes for a brief moment. The man was too damned honorable for his own good sometimes. "Is there _anything_ we can do to change his mind?"

"If anyone could, it's you," the Seeker told her in that same gentle tone. "You are the one constant in his life. He is bound to you, heart and soul." There was envy in Cassandra's eyes as she smiled. She longed for romance, but had resigned herself to enjoying it vicariously through Varric's books and the love affair they were based upon. "Cullen believes that he is not worthy of your love, and unworthy of his position here, because of one lapse. But he _can_ do this. I knew that when we met in Kirkwall. His attachment to you only makes him more capable, in my opinion." She shook her head lightly. "Talk to him, Amelia. Yours is the only voice he will listen to."

"And anger isn't going to solve this," the mage agreed. She rose to her feet, casting the crumpled note into the flames of the forge. "Let's hope I've learned to be a little more persuasive than the last time he left me."

The third time she passed through Solas' study, this time at a more moderate pace, the elf was nowhere to be seen. She could hear Josephine in the bird loft high above, no doubt venting to Leliana about the Inquisitor's lack of helpfulness in corralling all the necessary people and equipment for the their journey to the Winter Palace. But she had every faith in Josephine; everyone would be ready to leave this afternoon, and no one needed the Inquisitor's input for that. Well, no one but _one_ , and she was already dealing with that minor rebellion.

The open door to Cullen's office should have been a clue as to his state of mind. As it was, the paper weight that crashed against the wall by her head as she entered helped to pinpoint it, somewhat.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen swore, shock and guilt combining in his face as he leaned heavy hands onto his desk. "I didn't hear you enter. I ..." He took in the expression on her face, his eyes growing carefully blank under her gaze. "Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive you for," she told him, turning to firmly close the door behind her. The other two doors were already closed; this was as close to privacy as they could get in his tower office. "We need to talk."

"There is nothing you can say that will change my mind, Amelia," he told her in a flat tone, straightening as though bracing himself for her words.

"Oh, I think there is," she answered, amazed by her own calmness. Just twenty minutes ago, she had been ready to kick and scream, yet now she felt no need for such histrionics. "But first, you need to talk to me. What is this about, Cullen? I've been injured before. That can't be all of it."

"It should be enough," he argued stubbornly. "You almost died, because of me. Because I allowed my mind to be clouded with thoughts of revenge and ..." He let out a harsh breath. "I failed her. I will _not_ fail you!"

"Who are you talking about?" she asked gently, though the clue was written large in the furtive guilt on his face as he looked away. "Does this have something to do with ... Solona?" 

The shock of hearing that name from her lips drained all the color from his face. "How ... how can you possibly ..." A shuddering breath escaped his chest as he stared at her. "Who told you about her?"

She held his gaze with soft eyes. "You did," she told him simply. When he merely gaped at her, she moved closer. "You've always been haunted by nightmares, all the time I've known you," she explained in a gentle tone. "You cry out in your sleep. When we were first married, it was her name on your lips, her name that woke me. I came to learn that it was a bad night if you cried out for Solona. And you cried out for her last night. I think it's time you told me what it is that haunts your dreams."

He seemed to sag where he stood. "I didn't know," he breathed, mortified that he had been disturbing his wife's slumber with memories of another woman. "She ... Solona ... was a novice at the Ferelden Circle. I-I would not say we were friends, but I ..."

"You loved her." It was not a question. The truth was as plain as the scar on his lip, and though it gave her a pang to know that he had loved someone else, it made sense of some of his fears. 

"I thought I did," he answered softly. "We were scarcely more than children, and anyway, it was forbidden. You know as well as I the punishment for fraternization between mages and templars. I was young and idealistic, and she was forbidden to me. I was infatuated. I doubt she ever even noticed me there."

"What happened, Cullen?" As much as she appreciated the way he put his youthful feelings into perspective, she knew this was no mere tale of first love lost.

He turned away, casting his gaze out through the arrow-slit window. "The Circle fell," he said heavily. "It was taken over by abominations, blood mages who had survived the defeat at Ostagar. The templars, my _friends_ , were slaughtered. I ... I was tortured. The demons used her against me, stole her image from my thoughts and enacted every cruelty they could imagine on a novice who didn't even know my name. Even after she died, they wore her face to torment me. They tried to break my mind, and I ..." He broke off with a bitter laugh. "How can you be the same person after that?"

"No one would expect you to be," Amelia assured him as gently as she could. "You are not to blame for what happened to her."

"If I had mastered my thoughts, her death would have been _clean_ ," he said, his voice sharp for a moment before he shook his head. "The Hero of Ferelden saved my life ... and I tried to demand that all the surviving mages were put to death. I blamed them, all of them, for not seeing the blood magic in their midst, for not fighting harder against Uldred and his ilk. For _living_ , when so many had died. Thankfully, my demand was dismissed. But still, I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall."

To a city filled with blood magic and paranoia. Amelia sighed imperceptibly, reaching out to touch his hand. "If they had not, we would never have met."

His fingers curled about hers, gripping so tightly it hurt. But she offered no complaint, letting him pull her close as his haunted gaze returned to her face. Still gripping her hand, he traced her cheek with the trembling fingers of his free hand.

"You are the one light to have come from the darknesses of my life," he murmured fervently. "You taught me to see mages as human again, even in that sorry place; you showed me how to balance my fear. If anything were to happen to you ... That's why I sent you away, don't you see? I _trusted_ my Knight-Commander, and for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall's Circle fell; innocent people died in the streets. Again, I was complicit in chaos and destruction. Can't you see why I _have_ to go? Everything I touch ends in blood."

"That isn't true," she argued tenderly. "Cullen, you are _not_ responsible for what happened to the Ferelden Circle, or in the Gallows. You were caught up in events beyond your control. There is no blame on you - _you_ did what was right when everything fell apart in Kirkwall."

"Don't." He shook his head, denying her reassurance. "You should be questioning what I've done. I've learned nothing from my experiences. I allowed my wish to capture Samson to put your life in danger - that is something I cannot allow to happen again."

"And it _won't,"_ she insisted, denying him the freedom to speak further. "No, _listen_ to me. You are the Commander of the Inquisition. In two years, you have shown care and understanding for your soldiers and agents; you've built an army from nothing. There is not one person out there who would not march into hell on your orders. They _trust_ you, Cullen. _I_ trust you. There is no one better suited to this role than you."

"Amelia ... these thoughts won't leave me," he protested, unable to raise an objection beyond that. He knew she spoke the truth. "How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause, but ... these memories have always haunted me. If they become worse ... if I ...if I cannot ..."

"You _can_ ," she told him, absolute in her conviction. "We cannot do this without you."

"But you ... I put your life in peril," he argued once again, though he seemed not to _want_ to believe in his own guilt so much. "I cannot lose you to my own pride, Amelia. I won't risk it."

"You promised me," she reminded him in a pleading tone. "You _swore_ you would never abandon me again. But at the first obstacle, that is exactly what you are proposing to do. Please, Cullen, don't. Don't leave me to face this all alone."

"You won't be alone," he promised her, still cupping her cheek in his gloved hand. The pain of leaving her was there in his eyes, echoed by the ache in her heart. "You'll have Leliana, Josephine, all your companions. Rylen can easily take my place, or ..." He trailed off as her fingers covered his lip.

"They're not _you,_ " she said simply. "No one could ever take your place. I'm _your_ wife, Cullen. I didn't make those vows only to break them in times of trouble. I need you. I _love_ you, you ridiculous man."

Cullen stilled, wonder infusing his golden gaze as he stared into her eyes. "What?"

The word was barely more than a whisper, felt more than heard in the silence of the tower. Amelia felt her throat tighten with tears not far away. If he couldn't believe her ... if he rejected her heart ... how could she possibly convince him to stay?

"I said, I love you," she repeated, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "I've loved you for years, but there's never a good time to tell you, and now you want to leave, and I -"

His hand tightened against her cheek, just enough to pull her close, into a kiss that stole her breath away. His lips were soft against her own, gentle even as he teased her open to taste her gasp, smiling into her as she melted into his embrace. His hands skimmed her sides, thumbs just barely brushing the swell of her breasts before slipping to her back, dragging her hard into the unforgiving crush of his cuirass. She squeaked in protest, breaking that kiss with a tender laugh.

"This is putting a serious cramp in our love life," she said, rapping on the sturdy metal barrier between them.

Cullen laughed with her, gentling the wrap of his arms about her waist. "Forgive me," he apologized. "I wasn't expecting ..." A shy light came into his eyes as he regarded her hopefully. "Say it again?"

That shyness told her all she truly needed to know. "I love you," she told him for the third time, rising onto her toes to punctuate that promise with a slow, searing kiss.

He sighed against her lips, some great weight lifting from him as he twisted, setting her to perch on the very edge of his desk. His lips left hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses over her cheek, nudging her scarf aside to lavish attention to the flicker of her pulse at the smooth line of her neck. Another gasp fell from her lips as she shivered deliciously, pouring her fingers through the tousled curls that crowned his head, gripping tight and relaxing at the longed-for prickle of his stubbled jaw over her skin.

The door banged open. "Commander, you wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report."

Shocked out of that loving reverie, Amelia lurched up off the desk, even as Cullen snatched himself upright to scowl at the hapless messenger who had chosen that moment to enter uninvited.

"What?" the commander growled, one hand remaining firmly at his wife's hip as she fidgeted. For once, _she_ was the blushing bundle of embarrassment, not him.

"Sister Leliana's report?" the messenger repeated, heedless of what he had interrupted. "You wanted it delivered without delay."

He looked up from his armful of messages, and Cullen watched with warning eyes as the situation slowly dawned on the man. The Inquisitor, flushed and disheveled, her gaze darting everywhere as she fidgeted in place; the commander, glaring at him pointedly, his possessive hand wrapped over her hip; the disarrangement of papers on the desk; the air of unsatisfied tension in the air. His eyes widened.

"Or ... I could just leave it here and ... go," he said in a deeply uncomfortable tone, putting the report on the desk and backing toward the door under Cullen's silent glower.

"Andraste's arse," Amelia muttered as the door banged shut behind him. " _No_ privacy."

Cullen's lips curled in that roguish smile that made her knees go weak. "None," he agreed, bending close to claim her lips once more. "I love you," he whispered into that kiss, rewarded with the curve of her lips into a smile he felt, unaware that the heavy knot of her heart was loosening in sheer, unadulterated delight.

And the door opened again.

"Amelia, Josie is agitating for your attention," Leliana was saying as she entered. She paused, watching as husband and wife laughed in defeat, breaking their kiss to look over at her. "Is something the matter?" the spymaster asked innocently, her brows raised above her knowing smile.

For once, that smile did not annoy Cullen as it usually did. He found his gaze drawn back to Amelia's, finally recognizing the love in her eyes for what it was. "Not at all," he answered Leliana, not bothering to take his eyes from his wife. "Your commander stands ready to serve, Inquisitor."

Relief flooded Amelia's smile as she held his gaze. He was staying. "Thank you, commander," she answered, her expression bright beneath his regard. Hearing Leliana clear her throat tactfully, she ducked her head for a brief moment, feeling her blush return as she took a reluctant step back. "I should ... make my apologies to Josephine," she said, her hand lingering in Cullen's before finally releasing him as she stepped away.

Both commander and spymaster heard her inarticulate shout of joy as she crossed the arch back to the keep, the sound breaking off into giggles that faded away as she passed out of earshot. Leliana's smile deepened, her piercing gaze returning to study to commander for a moment.

"So ... _not_ leaving, then?" the redhead asked teasingly.

"No." Cullen rolled his eyes at the approving nod she gave him, chuckling at the sound of further laughter from their Inquisitor in the courtyard below. "No, I am exactly where I need to be."

After all, where else could he possibly go? Amelia loved him. Despite all his flaws and mistakes, she _loved_ him. He would march into hell for her; he could certainly endure the cream of Orlesian nobility for her sake. The Inquisitor needed her Commander; more than that, his wife needed her husband. Nothing could induce him to leave her now.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral, part one - goodness only knows how many parts this is going to take. :)

"Really, Sera, you can't present yourself to the Imperial court looking like that," Vivienne began, but the elf wasn't having any of it.

"Come anywhere near me with them, Madam Fancypants, and you're losing fingers," Sera warned pointedly.

Amelia turned away from the window, sighing at the sight of Vivienne holding a pair of scissors, and Sera fending her off with a chair. For some reason, Madam de Fer had decided that Sera was going to bring the tone of the entire Inquisition down with her appearance, and this argument had been going on for days. She rolled her eyes, moving to disarm both of them firmly.

"That's enough," she said, glancing from mage to rogue and back again. "Tonight is going to be difficult enough without my friends at each other's throats. Vivienne, Sera is perfectly presentable just as she is. And _you_ ..." She looked Sera straight in the eye. "Curb your impulses for one night, please."

Their resident Red Jenny rolled her own eyes. "All right," she yielded reluctantly. "But anyone pisses me off, I'm taking revenge tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is fine," Amelia assured her, knowing she had to cut Sera a little slack.

Tonight's venture was way out of the comfort zone for more than a few of her friends, yet not one of them had said no when she asked them to come to Halamshiral. The mere fact that they were _all_ going to be right there was helping to calm her nerves. It had been years since she had attended a ball, or had to dabble in the Great Game. Not even the reassurance that she wasn't alone was enough to quell the rising tide of nausea in her stomach. She had never liked to be the center of attention, and yet tonight all of Orlais' nobility would have her in their sights. Not to mention an unknown Tevinter agent, no doubt working to a schedule laid in place months ago.

"This is ridiculous," Cassandra said, walking into the ladies' sitting room. She plucked at her sash with distaste. "I do not see why I cannot simply wear armor."

"Because we're not supposed to be intimidating anyone tonight," Amelia reminded her wearily. "As far as the court is concerned, we're guests, nothing more."

"But why this?" Cassandra demanded, gesturing to herself. The Seeker wore what they all were wearing - a military tunic in scarlet, braid and epaulets in gold, belted and sashed in blue, over dark tan pants tucked into black boots. It didn't suit her; it didn't suit any of the women. Amelia didn't hold out much hope that it would suit the men, either.

"Part of the reason is to show a united front," she explained yet again, pulling her gloves on as she spoke. "Partly so we can identify our people in the crowd. And partly because I outright refused to wear a dress."

"So _we_ all have to look like nobby tossers because _you_ didn't want to wear a dress?" Sera accused in a curious tone. "Should've let me design it."

"I refuse to wear anything _you_ have had a hand in creating," Vivienne sniffed, looking down her nose at Sera.

"You didn't _have_ to come," the elf flared hotly.

"And allow Amelia to navigate the court without my expertise? I think not." The aloof enchanter shook her head. "The Game is treacherous enough without turning an untrained novice loose in the halls of the Winter Palace."

"Thank you, Vivienne, that makes me feel _so_ much better," Amelia drawled sarcastically. "Now I really _do_ think I'm going to be sick."

"You will be fine, Inquisitor," a new voice interjected - Leliana, leading Josephine into the room. "You will not be alone." She looked at the ambassador curiously. "Well, Josie? Do we pass muster?"

Josephine's eyes traveled critically over all of them. Vivienne, tall and elegant; Sera, already looking rumpled; Cassandra, stiff and uncomfortable; Leliana, effortlessly at ease; and Amelia, pale and nervous in her military finery. The ambassador herself looked a little odd to them in her own uniform, but her manner would always overcome any poor impression given by her clothing. She nodded finally.

"We will do," she conceded, smoothing a wayward strand of her hair. "The carriages are arriving. We should join the gentlemen."

Amelia wasn't surprised that both Leliana and Josephine chose to walk beside her as the others strode from the room, the three of them following at a more sedate pace out into the corridor and down the stairs to the foyer.

"Breathe, Inquisitor," Leliana advised as they went. "You look close to fainting."

"I'm trying," Amelia told her. "This is not my idea of a fun evening out."

"I am sure you will acquit yourself perfectly this evening," Josephine said confidently. "You are the equal of everyone here, and they will not know what to make of you. You have the advantage, Amelia."

"Right now, I feel like I have the pox," the mage complained softly. "I really do hate this, Josephine."

"It is a part of who you are," Leliana reminded her in a gentle tone. "But you are not alone. We stand with you; we will not let you fall."

"Relax," Josephine added, as the murmur of male voices below reached them. "It is only for a few hours."

"A few hours in which Orlais could fall to chaos if I make a mistake," Amelia pointed out, watching her feet as she walked down the stairs. It was a sobering thought, that an entire country was dependent on her this evening. "Are you _sure_ we need to go at all? We could just warn the Empress that she's in danger."

Josephine sighed. "We've made the attempt, but ..."

"It seems that our messages never reached her," Leliana said regretfully, her gaze flickering about the foyer as they gained the ground floor. Everyone was there assembled, waiting for the order to get moving. "Someone intercepted them."

"It's better that we don't leave this to chance." Amelia wrenched her eyes from her own feet to find that Cullen had joined them, looking ridiculously good in the uniform that just made everyone else look ridiculous. She had a sneaking suspicion that Josephine may have used her husband as the model when she was designing the silly thing. He looked absolutely edible. "If Orlais falls to Corypheus," he continued, "no land is safe."

"So it comes back to me not making any mistakes tonight," she sighed uncomfortably. "No pressure."

As Josephine and Leliana moved away, no doubt to inspect everyone and get them into the appropriate carriages without mishap, Cullen moved to lay his hands on Amelia's upper arms, ducking his head until she met his eyes.

"You are more than capable of this," he told her, so certain that, for a moment, _she_ was certain too. "You have sharp eyes and a quick mind, and intuition that has never failed you. I pity the agent who thinks they can outwit you." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her pale brow. "And you look lovely."

Oddly, it was the kiss and the compliment that relaxed her, drawing a quiet laugh from between her lips. "You're a terrible liar," she told him in a fond tone. "I look silly, and you know it. But thank you for trying."

He chuckled, letting her draw closer to taste his smile. "If I had said beautiful, would you have believed me?"

"No," she assured her husband. "If only because you look stunning. Very handsome, very ..." She blushed as she lowered her voice. "Very sexy," was whispered for his ears only.

She expected him to blush and stammer, to have embarrassed him with her frank assessment of his presentation for the evening. She _hadn't_ expected to be pulled close against his chest, his breath teasing her lips as one hand slipped down to press into the curve of her spine, holding her tight against him. His fingertips traced her flushed cheek as she squeaked, his smile deepening at the sweet sound.

"Lovely," he repeated his compliment, and this time, she didn't argue. "And _mine_."

The possessive desire in his voice sent a tingle down her spine. She wasn't property, but somehow she knew he didn't mean it like that. She was his by _her_ choice, a distinction they both knew many people failed to comprehend. But it was a distinction that meant the world to Cullen, who could scarcely believe that his wife loved and wanted him entirely of her own accord.

"Inquisitor?"

They broke apart, turning to find Josephine returning through the main door. She nodded to them both, approving of the color Cullen had brought into his wife's pale cheeks, and smiled with vague trepidation.

"It is time."

Together, they left the grand house hired just for this occasion, and climbed into the carriage waiting outside, settling with their backs to the horses as Leliana and Josephine sat opposite them. The rest of their party was already settled in two other carriages, anticipating the evening ahead with varying degrees of excitement and alarm. As the horses moved off, Amelia gripped Cullen's hand, leaning forward in the gentle shake of the vehicle.

"All right," she said, setting her nerves aside with some difficulty. "Remind me what we're facing here."

"The political situation in Halamshiral hangs by a thread," Josephine told her quietly. "The Empress fears our presence could sever it. The Grand Duke is only too happy to have us at the ball as his guests. Whether we act as his allies or upset the balance of power, he gains an opportunity ... if not a clear advantage." She glanced at Leliana briefly. "During the course of the evening, Celene and Gaspard will be meeting for peace talks, together with Ambassador Briala."

"The assassin must be hiding within one of these three factions," the spymaster added confidently.

Amelia nodded, her expression thoughtful as she absorbed all this. "And what do we know about the Grand Duke?" she asked.

It was Cullen who answered. "The man who would be Emperor," he said in a level tone. "He's Celene's cousin, and _was_ first in line to inherit the throne. Celene outmaneuvered him - she won over the Council of Heralds, who hold authority over title disputes. She became the Empress, and he, a general in the Imperial army."

"So he's not politically adept?" she mused, wondering if that was an advantage.

"He has never been an acclaimed player of the Game, but do not think he is a novice," Leliana warned. "He would not have survived the coup if he could not play."

"More than that, he's well loved by his troops," Cullen added. "He's also a chevalier. Most of their number sided with him."

"That doesn't make any sense," Amelia pointed out, trying to understand the situation one last time. "The chevaliers are part of the army - why would they turn on their Empress?"

"Most chevaliers _are_ sworn to serve the crown, but that does not give them faith in the person wearing it," Cullen explained to her for the umpteenth time. All three of them had been very patient when it came to helping her understand just what she was walking into here. "Celene has tried to improve relations with Ferelden and Nevarra. The chevaliers see her as anti-military. They believe Gaspard could lead the Empire back to the glory of Drakon's expansion years."

She stared at him in the dimly-lit carriage. "The chevaliers want to conquer southern Thedas again," she translated, frowning as he nodded. "Another problem for another day." Turning her head back to the women on the other seat, she moved on. "So who is Ambassador Briala?"

"An ambassador in name only," Leliana told her. "She has organized the elves of Halamshiral into an underground army. The Empress invited her to the peace talks in a bid to gain the elves' alliance in the war. That would be scandal enough, without the rumor that Briala is a jilted lover of Celene's." She leaned back. "A personal grudge and a network of saboteurs at her command? I call that a promising lead."

Amelia held up her hand, her attention caught by one snippet in particular. "Hold on a moment," she said, mentally backing up. "The _elven_ leader is a jilted lover of the Empress?"

"This _is_ Orlais," Cullen murmured, his patriotic partiality showing briefly before he subsided under Leliana's stern glance.

"It's not widely known," the redhead clarified. "Just a rumor whispered among the palace servants a few years ago. If it's true and were to get out, the scandal would destroy Celene's court. Even if a lie, Briala could use it to blackmail her. She does have _some_ connection to the throne, that we know for certain."

"Nothing is ever straightforward here, is it?" Amelia sighed, already exasperated, and they hadn't even arrived at the palace yet. "What about the Empress herself?"

"Celene is a renowned diplomat and reformer," Josephine offered. "She works tirelessly to secure peace for the Empire. Unfortunately, many Orlesians view peace as complacency."

"Let me guess," Amelia drawled in a resigned tone. "Most Orlesians share the chevaliers' ambitions?"

"That would seem to be the case, Inquisitor," Josephine agreed reluctantly. "She also has yet to name an heir, which leaves the future of the Empire in doubt if anything should happen to her. Especially when the next in line is her cousin Gaspard, who has made few friends on the Council of Heralds."

"Celene is surrounded at all times by countless guards, courtiers, servants, and vassals," Leliana added. "What better place for an assassin to hide?"

"Not to mention this mysterious magical advisor," Amelia pointed out, proving that she _did_ listen to them, even if she didn't always understand what they were telling her.

Leliana's expression darkened. "Yes," she said slowly. "I have my suspicions about her identity. She is likely to be at Celene's side. I will know for certain when I see her."

"Well, that sounds ominous." Amelia sighed once again. "To be honest, they all sound as bad as each other."

"Our goal is to find this assassin and hopefully bring stability to Orlais," Cullen reminded her. "How we do that is yet to be decided."

"I feel I must warn you, Inquisitor," Josephine began, her dark gaze intense in the shaking carriage. "How you speak to the court is a matter of life and death. Every word, every gesture, is measured and evaluated for weakness. You were safer staring down Corypheus."

"And now I feel sick again," Amelia answered, glancing out at the passing trees as she felt Cullen squeeze her hand. "You should probably pass this warning onto the others, as well. Especially Cole and Sera. Tell Sera twice."

"I'll ... have a few discreet words," the ambassador promised. She paused, seeming to hesitate before continuing. "I believe House Trevelyan has been invited tonight - a token gesture to the Free Marches, perhaps, but likely an attempt to put you off-balance. I thought you should know."

Amelia felt a block of ice settle on her roiling stomach. "So Lorent is going to be there," she said unhappily. "I don't suppose there are any fountains in the ballroom, are there?" She felt Cullen snort with laughter beside her, even as Josephine shook her head, exchanging a confused glance with Leliana. "What a shame. I suppose you want me to bury him in civility?"

"He is a known player of the Game," Leliana said seriously. "It is unusual for a Marcher to be so accomplished. Be very careful, Inquisitor. He has made no secret of the fact that he wants you dead."

"He's wanted me dead since the day I was born," Amelia reminded her with a wry smile. "I fully intend to continue disappointing him."

The carriage came to a halt outside the ornate gates of the Winter Palace, their Inquisition escort taking formation to present the Inquisitor with just a hint of the military might she could bring to bear. Light spilled out of the myriad windows of the palace, illuminating the gathered crowd of nobles who lingered in the sweet-scented garden. Despite the chill, there was no snow on the ground, presumably cleared away by servants in anticipation of the gathering that evening, a hum of mana in the air betraying the source of the gentle warmth hanging over the garden that made bare shoulders possible for the women of the court in the heart of winter.

"Everything will be fine," Josephine was saying firmly as the carriage door was opened. The ambassador's voice dropped to a fervent whisper. "Andraste watch over us all."

Cullen climbed out first, reaching back to hand each of them down from the carriage as the rest of their party joined them. His hand lingered in Amelia's, hoping she could take a little strength from that touch. Tonight promised to be mildly unpleasant for all of them, yet she was the one who would have to endure the lion's share of the court's scrutiny. If Val Royeaux had been a nest of vipers, Halamshiral was the belly of a dragon. All he could do from this point on was hope she would not succumb to the fear he knew she was feeling. This was a nightmare scenario for his modest wife.

She squeezed his hand before releasing him, taking a moment to meet the eyes of her companions. They all appeared as on edge as she felt - all but Vivienne, who was actually looking forward to all this and, surprisingly, Solas. The elven apostate seemed positively at ease, despite the ridiculous hat he had insisted upon wearing. They formed up in pairs at her back, their armored escort in front of her leading the way through the tall gates and into the treacherous maw of the Winter Palace.

As she dismissed their escort, secure in the knowledge that they would be close by all night, Amelia felt the eyes that turned to study her. Every face was masked, though her own party was not, giving the eerie impression of animated statues turning to watch her every move. One of those statues moved toward her, his mask golden, his ornate doublet mounted with select pieces of ceremonial armor - Grand Duke Gaspard, greeting his guests.

"Inquisitor Rutherford, we meet at last," he declared, seizing her hand to lay a kiss on her knuckles as he bowed to her.

"We do indeed, your grace," Amelia answered politely. She had been through this exact moment with Josephine too many times to count in the past few days. Reclaiming her hand, she gestured toward her trio of advisers. "May I present my husband, Commander Cullen Rutherford; my ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet; and I believe you already know Lady Leliana."

"Ah, the Nightingale returns to the court," Gaspard enthused warmly. "It has been too long, Lady Leliana."

"I am always pleased to return to the Winter Palace, your grace," Leliana answered with easy grace.

"Lady Montilyet, an honor to meet such a noted scion of your noble house." Gaspard, Amelia noticed, certainly had charm in abundance.

"My family is honored by your notice of us, your grace," Josephine replied, though she seemed to brace herself as the Grand Duke turned his focus to Cullen.

"And Commander Rutherford," Gaspard finished, his eyes glinting behind his mask. "Maferath to the Inquisitor's Andraste."

Amelia felt Cullen stiffen at the implied insult, bristling on his behalf, but he had been expecting something like this. Schooling his expression into polite blankness, he inclined his head to the Duke. " _My_ loyalty to my wife is absolute, your grace."

Gaspard held his gaze a moment longer before releasing a studied laugh. "As it should be, commander," he agreed, turning his attention back to Amelia. "Inquisitor, I have heard so much about you. Bringing both mages and templars into your ranks was not only a brilliant military move, but a clever political ploy, as well. Some might almost call it miraculous. Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais!"

Still a little rattled by his less than pleasant greeting to Cullen, Amelia's reply was not the measured diplomacy Josephine had worked so hard to drill into her. "And which was the rightful one again?" she asked with deceptive innocence. "I keep getting them confused."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Josephine's jaw drop briefly, the ambassador smoothing her expression as the Duke hesitated, re-evaluating the woman before him.

"The handsome, charming one, of course, my lady," he told her, letting out another of those studied laughs. "I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor. You help me, I'll help you." He offered her his arm, turning to lead her up the wide steps to the palace itself.

With a glance over her shoulder to ensure everyone was following, Amelia obligingly took the offered arm, shortening her stride to match his measured steps. Evidently the Grand Duke wanted everyone out here to recognize just _who_ he had invited as his guest, and to give that information time to race ahead of them into the ballroom on the lips of the nobility who wondered at his audacity. Amelia's part in the Great Game had begun.

"My lady, are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the Great Ball with a hateful usurper?" Gaspard asked as they passed through the nobles who had yet to be announced in the ballroom proper. "They will be telling stories of this into the next Age."

He sounded too confident for Amelia's liking, too certain she was here solely for his benefit. Time to puncture some of that smugness. "There's a Tevinter assassin on the loose, Gaspard," she informed him softly, stepping over his title to get his attention. "Finding _him_ is my priority."

She felt his arm tense beneath her hand. "Are you serious?" Gaspard sounded genuinely shocked beneath his mask. "That is a grave allegation, my friend. A foreign power, meddling _now_ , of all times?" But he recovered from his shock quickly. "I have no doubt this Tevinter is hiding within the ranks of the elven delegation," he intimated to her, inclining his head to a dowager as they entered the palace. "They're up to something. My people have found these _ambassadors_ all over our fortifications. Sabotage seems the least of their crimes."

_Well, that didn't take long,_ Amelia thought to herself. Gaspard was very quick to try and turn her attention away from himself. "Tell me there's more to your suspicion," she said in a wary tone. "Speculation rarely has much basis in fact where such a clear bias is felt."

"That ambassador, Briala ... used to be a servant of Celene's," he told her. "That is, until my cousin had her arrested for crimes against the Empire, to cover up a political mistake. If anyone here wishes Celene harm, Inquisitor, it's that elf. She certainly has reason."

"She is not the only one here with reason, your grace," Amelia reminded him. Did he really think she was so naive as to allow him to dictate her investigation?

He sighed, coming to a halt before the doors into the ballroom. "Be as discreet as possible," he advised, and for a moment, she was sure _this_ was a genuine reflection of his character. "I detest the Game, but if we do not play it well, our enemies will make us look like villains." He held her gaze for a long moment, waiting for her short nod of understanding before moving on. "We're keeping the court waiting, Inquisitor. Shall we?"

"We shall."

This time, however, Amelia declined to take his arm. She was _not_ his puppet, and she refused to allow him to imply such a thing to the Imperial court. A flicker of what might have been approval touched his eyes as he lowered his arm, turning to nod to the herald waiting to announce them. The masked faces of the Orlesian elite turned to survey them as they entered, torn between gawping at the usurper Grand Duke, studying the unknown quantity that was the Inquisition, or watching the reaction of the Empress as she took her place at the far end of the grand ballroom.

"And now presenting ... Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, and accompanying him, Lady Inquisitor Amelia Amandine Lucille Rutherford of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, Champion of the Blessed Andraste Herself!"

The ripple that passed through the crowded ballroom was certainly gratifying to the Grand Duke at her side as they bowed together to Empress Celene. Amelia was _not_ gratified; she had always hated to be the center of so much attention, to have strangers look on her and judge her only on rumor and what they saw before them. Rumor painted her as a heretic or a hero, depending on who you listened to; her appearance showed only a rather ordinary-looking woman in a uniform that did not suit her at all. But clearly the news that she was a mage had not reached the Orlesian court until this moment. Their awe and surprise was mingled with distaste and fear - mages would never be accepted into this society.

_"Accompanying the Inquisitor ... the Lady Inquisitor's elven serving man, Solas; the Iron Bull, leader of the famed mercenary company Bull's Chargers, as the name would imply; Madame Vivienne, First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, Enchanter of the Imperial court, mistress of the Duke of Ghislain ..."_

As Gaspard lead the way across the length of the ballroom at a stately pace, Amelia heard him laugh softly behind his mask. "Do you see their faces?" he murmured in amusement, clearly pleased with himself. "Priceless."

Amelia didn't respond, her eyes scanning the room as discreetly as she could manage. Too many masks, offering no clue as to the face behind, all turned toward her even as her companions continued to be announced. Evaluating her for weakness, just as Josephine had warned.

_" ... Warden Blackwall of Val Chevin, Constable of the Grey, Bearer of the Silverite Wings of Valor; her ladyship, Mai Balsych of Korse ..."_

Amelia's lips twitched at that outrageous bit of mischief. She could hear Sera snickering from here. Well, that should at least keep the Red Jenny entertained for the evening. Everyone who tried to speak to her was going to have to use that ridiculous name, and given the reaction in the ballroom, very few had noticed what was wrong with it. Of course, that just made it funnier. But what was this Wings of Valor business? She was sure Blackwall had never mentioned it.

_" ... renowned author Varric Tethras, head of Noble House Tethras, Deshyr of Kirkwall to the Dwarven Merchants Guild; Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calegera Filomena -"_

_"Get on with it."_

_"- Pentaghast, fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra nine times removed, Hero of Orlais, and Right Hand of the Divine ..."_

And Amelia thought _her_ name was embarrassing. She was surprised to note that Varric's name caused something of a stir; if his literary celebrity extended to the Imperial court, that could prove very useful tonight. People eager to impress were liable to let things slip to the object of their admiration, and Varric was astute enough to encourage that. A familiar coat of arms caught her eye - the Marquis DuRellion, inclining his head to her as she passed. So not _everyone_ here was a hostile stranger.

_" ... Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Asariel; Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial court, veteran of the Fifth Blight, seneschal of the Inquisition, and Left Hand of the Divine ..."_

It was difficult to say whose introduction caused the greater fuss - the fearsome Tevinter mage, or the returning Nightingale. They both certainly had the full attention of the court, something Amelia was relieved to note, but not all eyes left her as they drew closer to the Empress. Celene's companions - two women, fair- and dark-haired, and a man, also dark-haired - remained focused on the Grand Duke and the Inquisitor. The dark-haired woman, in particular, drew the eye; she was the only person not of the Inquisition to be without a mask, her eyes glinting yellow in the lamplight.

_" ... Sir Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Commander of the forces of the Inquisition, former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, Knight of the Realm of Ferelden; and Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, ambassador of the Inquisition."_

Finally they had all been announced - all but Cole, who had his own reasons for avoiding the pomp and circumstance - gathering beneath the balcony where the Empress and her companions waited to receive them. All eyes were upon them, friendly and hostile alike, the hum of chatter stilled to almost nothing as all ears strained to hear their official welcome.

"Cousin," Gaspard greeted the Empress, his voice warming as he turned his gaze to the fair-haired woman who looked down on them from her side. "My dear sister."

"Grand Duke, we are always honored when your presence graces our court," Celene answered his greeting, her words fair and her voice light. Her expression, however, was perceptibly cool.

Gaspard was not going to play that game. "Don't waste my time with pleasantries, Celene," he told her sharply. "We have business to conclude."

Celene's eyes hardened to ice behind her silver mask. "We will meet for the negotiations _after_ we have seen to our other guests," she informed her cousin in a stern voice.

Gaspard's scowl was hidden behind his mask of gold, but displeasure radiated from him as he bowed. A last nod to Amelia, and he stalked away, leaving the representatives of the Inquisition in the full glare of the court's attention. The Empress' pale eyes softened just barely as she met Amelia's gaze.

"Lady Inquisitor, we welcome you to the Winter Palace," she announced graciously. "Allow us to introduce our cousin, Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons, of Lydes, without whom this gathering would never have been possible."

The fair-haired Duchess' smile was serpentine. "What an unexpected pleasure," she said, putting on a decent display of cordiality. Amelia thought it was pretty obvious that Florianne took no pleasure in seeing them there at all. "I was not aware that the Inquisition would be a part of our festivities. Lady Inquisitor, I believe you are acquainted with my betrothed, Lord Lorent Trevelyan of Ostwick."

Amelia turned her eyes to the dark-haired man. She hadn't recognized him, standing formal and silent, masked in the manner of this court. But she _did_ recognize the burning hatred in his eyes. Lorent evidently hadn't been expecting her to be here, either. "We have had the pleasure," she agreed in a neutral tone, inclining her head to her elder brother. He offered a short nod in return.

"We will certainly speak later, Inquisitor," Duchess Florianne promised, stepping away with her betrothed. Amelia couldn't help wondering what they were muttering about as they went.

"Your arrival at court is like a cool wind on a summer's day," Celene said then, and Amelia suddenly got the impression she was being tested somehow. The Empress seemed to know there was more going on here than peace talks and revelry.

"Let's hope the breeze does not herald an oncoming storm," she heard herself answer, barely hearing the reaction of the nobles. She was focused on the Empress, certain the woman was intelligent enough to recognize a warning when it was given.

"Even the wisest mistake fair winds for foul," Celene replied, seemingly disregarding the warning given as pointless, or perhaps not understanding its import. "We are at the mercy of the skies, Inquisitor. How do you find Halamshiral?"

_Overdone, poisonous, and filled to the brim with traitors,_ she thought. Yet Amelia smiled, calling on every lesson Josephine had given her over the months. "I have no words to suffice," she declared, aware that the approval of the watching nobles was rising at her speech. "Halamshiral has many beauties, and I couldn't do them justice."

That approval was reflected in the Empress' cold eyes as she inclined her head in acceptance of the guarded praise. "Your modesty does you credit, and speaks well for the Inquisition," she declared, and Amelia could almost _hear_ the hurried change of opinions in the galleries around her. "Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ball, Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you _dance_."

_I'll wager you do,_ Amelia thought as she bowed low, turning to lead her gaggle of companions away, sending them to scatter among the party-goers and mingle as best they could. If their introduction to the court was anything to go by, this was going to be a _very_ long evening.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral, part the second.

"What a surprise to see you here, Inquisitor. I was not aware that my betrothed's brother was of a mind to force her to play host to a heretic."

Amelia turned, unsurprised to find Lorent standing near her, glowering from behind his black mask. She wouldn't put it past him to be somehow involved with the plot to kill the Empress; between the lure of power through his betrothed and the opportunity to severely limit the Inquisition, it was exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to her ambitious brother. She was not, however, going to rise to his bait.

"Congratulations on your betrothal, Lord Trevelyan," she answered with polite civility. "Quite a prestigious match for an heir from the Free Marches."

"Far more so than your own marriage," he pointed out, taking a glass from a servant as they passed.

Amelia, too, took a drink from the tray, thanking the elf with full eye contact and a warm smile, which seemed to confuse him. "In terms of power and influence, yes," she agreed with her brother's comment, hiding a smile at _his_ momentary confusion with a sip from her glass. "I had no idea you were in negotiations with the royal house of Orlais."

"The Grand Duchess approached _me_ ," he boasted proudly. "I was, as you no doubt recall, _forced_ to travel through Orlais last winter. It was her kindness that allowed me to travel in some comfort. The betrothal was finalized today, in fact. We ... share ambition. I have reason to believe our association will be very profitable for us both."

Ah, Lorent. He was a goldmine, and he didn't even know it. "I am delighted you have finally found someone you can give Father that grandchild with," she told him, her smile easy to feign. Despite the disownment, they were still blood. "How is he? I'd heard that his health is failing."

Even masked, she saw the confidence on his face falter. For all his faults, Lorent loved their father deeply, the old man's favorite child. "He is not improving," he said quietly. "He caught a summer chill that has left him weakened. I fear another will take him to the arms of the Maker."

Amelia felt her expression grow sombre. "Do you have anyone who knows how to make Mother's heal-all?" she asked seriously. "It may not help, but it would likely comfort him."

Lorent shook his head. "You were the only one of us she taught," he said, just a hint of anger in his voice. "Any servant who might have known, Father dismissed after her death."

"If I can find ink and parchment, I can give you the recipe tonight," she offered easily enough. It was a small thing, one that cost her nothing to give, and if it could give an old man some comfort in his last months, then it was worth a minor inconvenience.

"Why would you do that?" Lorent asked, his eyes hard with suspicion.

She gave him a hard stare. "Because he's my _father_ , Lorent," she reminded him. "As many differences as we have, I do not want him to suffer needlessly." She glanced away, catching Vivienne's gesture - the enchanter wanted to speak to her. "Please excuse me. I will make sure you have that recipe by the end of the evening."

Satisfied that she had left her brother in a state of confused suspicion for now, she slipped from his side, forcing herself to keep a measured pace as she navigated the groups of nobles to reach Vivienne. The First Enchanter took the glass out of her hand, replacing it with another.

"Don't drink the mulled wine, darling, it's at least three times stronger than the Antivan red," she advised. "You don't want to lose your wits at the Winter Palace."

"Thank you for the advice," Amelia said gratefully, making a mental note only to drink the Antivan for the rest of the evening. "And for the timely intervention."

"I didn't think you would want to spend your evening being pestered by your odious brother," Vivienne agreed. "Whatever did he say to make your face fall like that?"

"My father's dying," Amelia told her softly.

"Oh, my dear, I am so sorry." Vivienne's hand covered hers with a light touch. For once, her reaction seemed utterly genuine. "Is there anything we can do?"

"I need ink and parchment," she said in a low tone. "There's a potion my mother used to make that might at least comfort him."

"That is easily done, my dear."

And so it was. Within a matter of minutes, with just a quiet word to one of the many elven servants wandering the room, Amelia was ensconced at a table, scribbling down the recipe for her mother's heal-all. It wasn't a particularly powerful potion, but the scent of it was a huge part of her childhood, a beloved fragrance that always reminded her of her mother. As she was sealing the parchment with the signet ring on her finger, she became aware that she was not alone.

"What is it, Cole?"

The strange spirit-boy stood close by her shoulder, his fair hair slicked down over his eyes. "There is a door that does not open," he told her. "Whispers and worries, friends who did not return. Clues dropped for sharp eyes to find where faces do not see, protection requested where words do not speak, and blood spilled above the place where Dorian dances. I don't like it here."

She sighed softly, regretting the necessity of his presence with them. So many people, all focused on their own wants and desires, could not be good for the sensitive spirit he embodied. "I know," she assured him as gently as she could. "This is a dangerous place for all of us."

"The faces talk even when they aren't moving," he whispered furtively. "Silk on satin on skin, always wanting, chaste but chased. Too many."

His very being seemed hemmed in, as though his senses were under siege. She offered him her hand, surprised when he ignored it to seize the other hand instead, palm to palm over the mark beneath her glove. "Are you all right, Cole?"

"They have faces inside their faces, lying with a layer that tells the truth," he told her, stroking the Anchor through her glove. It seemed to calm him. "I don't know how to help them."

"Then help _me_ instead," she suggested. "This place is full of whispers and secrets. Find them, and tell Leliana what you learn. She'll be able to make sense of it all."

"Help you," he repeated softly. "Yes. Yes! Secrets and whispers for the spymaster who sees all. I can do that."

"Stay out of trouble, Cole."

She let him fade from her perception, hoping she'd done the right thing as she rose to return to Vivienne. The enchanter dismissed her conversational companion with an imperious wave of her hand, turning to smile at Amelia as she approached.

"How can I help you, my dear?"

"I need to get this to Lorent," Amelia told her, gesturing with the sealed parchment. "And a little advice. Who should I be speaking to?"

"I can take care of that, darling," Vivienne assured her, taking the parchment from her hand. "As to the ball ... speak to the Council of Heralds. Six of them are here tonight; the seventh is ... indisposed. His absence will complicate the negotiations." Her eyes dulled for a moment, seeing some inner pain, before she brightened once more. Vivienne didn't need a mask to hide. "The Council are the highest ranking players of the Game. They see _everything_. They might know something we can use."

"The Council of Heralds," Amelia repeated. "Thank you, Madame."

Thus armed, she began her first circuit of the ballroom, pausing when asked; knowing that each pause, each seemingly innocent question, was a means to study her, to try and determine the reason for her presence. Some tried to draw her into an open acclamation of support for Celene or Gaspard; others tried to trick her into revealing some subtle weakness they might be able to exploit. Others stopped her purely so they could say they had personally spoken with the Inquisitor herself, but eventually she made it to the outer rooms. Leliana was waiting for her in the vestibule.

"I was hoping I would catch you," the redhead said, drawing her over to an empty chaise. "What did the Duke say?"

"He points the finger at Ambassador Briala," Amelia told her, taking a seat. "And something interesting came from Lorent. It appears that Grand Duchess Florianne was the one to propose their marriage. He also says that he shares her ambition."

"Which would suggest that the Duchess yearns for power," Leliana mused thoughtfully. "I had wondered why she was not staying close to Celene. I have never seen her more than a few steps from her cousin's side at any other time. And the ambassador _is_ up to something, but we can't focus on either one just yet."

"We need more information," Amelia agreed. "I've asked Cole to snoop about. He'll bring what he discovers to you."

Leliana nodded. "The best place to strike at Celene is from her side," she said, her tone pensive. "Did you note who else was by her side?"

"The dark-haired woman," Amelia said, her own tone wary. "You recognized her?"

"Empress Celene is fascinated by mysticism," the spymaster told her. "Foreseeing the future, speaking with the dead, that sort of rubbish." Amelia snorted derisively; Leliana nodded in agreement. "She has an occult advisor - the unmasked woman who observed you so closely as Celene spoke. She is an apostate, and she has charmed the Empress and key members of the court as if by magic. I've had dealings with her before."

The dark way her spymaster spoke warned Amelia that those dealings were not good memories for her friend. "What sort of dealings are we talking about here, Leliana?"

Leliana lowered her eyes. "You recall that I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight?" she asked softly. "King Alistair was not the only other companion on our journey. Taleyn drew together Qunari, Dwarves, Elves, even a golem; warriors, rogues, and mages. One of those mages was Morrigan, a witch from the Korcari Wilds. She is ruthless, and capable of anything."

"How can Celene openly keep an apostate in the Imperial court?" Amelia asked, confused by the contradictions of the Orlesian court. Their reaction to _her_ suggested that mages were something to be feared and sneered at; yet they welcomed Vivienne, and this apostate, it seemed.

"The Imperial court has always had an official position for a mage," Leliana explained. She should know - she'd practically grown up at the court herself. "Before now, it was little better than court jester. Vivienne was the first to turn that position into a source of _real_ political power. When the Circles rebelled, technically _every_ mage became an apostate. The word lost much of its strength."

"I see. And you think this mage - Morrigan - is controlling the minds of the court?" Amelia asked. It was not an impossible scenario, just an extremely worrying one. "If she is, that's powerful blood magic, Leliana."

"And not out of the realms of possibility where she is concerned," Leliana said firmly. "She is worth investigating. Can't be sure of anything here." The redhead sighed - the task before them seemed monumental. "Both leads point toward the Guest Wing. It's a promising place to start - I will coordinate with Cole and our spies to see if I can find anything better." She rose, and Amelia rose with her, their sojourn over for now. "I will be in the ballroom, if you need me."

Nodding, Amelia let her go on her way, catching Cassandra's eye for a moment. The Seeker shook her head - she hadn't seen anything noteworthy yet. Reassured, the mage continued on her circuit of the Empress' guests, allowing herself to be drawn into short, inconsequential conversations that told her nothing of the looming danger and too much about the Orlesian love of scheming and politics. It was a relief to step into the almost empty Hall of Heroes, allowed to listen to her own thoughts for once. Gaspard pointed the finger at Briala, but Lorent's words suggested that Florianne might be involved in all this, and Leliana's suspicions about the mage Morrigan were downright scary. She'd walked into this expecting to narrow her choice down from three, only to have the list of suspects expand to six.

"Fancy do, isn't it?"

She glanced up at the familiar tone, finding Blackwall looking up at the statues beside her. "I see you escaped the ballroom," she commented mildly.

He huffed out a laugh. "Escape is a good word for it," he agreed. "I was under siege in there. Too many questions about my _conquests_."

"So you left Cullen to field all that by himself?" Her husband had developed quite a crowd of hangers-on, all a little _too_ interested in the state of his marriage.

"He can handle it," Blackwall told her confidently. "By the time I left, he'd already had nine different ladies and six gentlemen ask him to dance. I definitely overheard at least two indecent proposals, too."

"Sweet Andraste," she muttered, half-horrified, half-amused. "I'll have to rescue him at some point."

"You've work to do," the Warden reminded her, lowering his voice. "Leliana passed on Cole's message. This seems a fair bet for the _place where faces don't see_. I'll take a look. You keep being visible."

Amelia shot her friend a grateful look. "Thanks, Blackwall," she smiled, feeling that smile freeze on her face as she spotted Lorent entering the Hall. He had no reason to be here, unless ... Of course. He was following her.

Blackwall frowned. "What is it?" he asked, his low voice concerned.

She shook her head. "I seem to have picked up a tail," she told him softly. "Don't worry about it. See if you can find that drop point."

"Aye, my lady." He nodded to her. "Take care."

With this wish ringing in her ears, she stepped away, skirting around a pair of elves who gave her a dirty look, and out into the staterooms that had been made public for tonight's festivities. This was where the Council of Heralds was to be found, but as yet none of them would speak to her. The situation for them was not yet dire enough to warrant an invitation to the Inquisitor. But at least they were civil with her, even as they rejected her attempt to converse with them. Her main concern was Lorent; he _was_ following her, no doubt looking for something he could use to have her removed from the palace. It was flattering that he considered her so much of a threat, but it did pose a problem; Leliana had suggested the Guest Wing, but the moment she tried to enter, Lorent would no doubt raise a fuss. A sweep of the room from which she could access the garden, however, offered her a solution in the shape of the Iron Bull, who was scowling by the window.

"You got anything that needs killing?" the Qunari asked as she reached him. "Because the nobles keep messing with me, and they think I don't know they're doing it. This keeps up, I'm going to wear somebody's skull as _my_ fancy little mask."

"Going that well, is it?" she responded pleasantly, aware that Lorent had placed himself between her and the Council members, apparently not having realized that she'd already tried and failed with them. "I have a slight situation I need some help with. No killing, though."

"That situation the pissant who followed you in?" Bull asked mildly. "He's not very discreet."

"That's the one," she agreed, smiling a little at his description of her brother. "Do you think you can keep him busy until I come back in from the garden? What he doesn't see won't hurt him, after all."

A slow smile crossed the mercenary's gray face. "You want me to mess with a noble? My pleasure, boss." He put down his bowl of nuts, moving purposefully over to the indiscreet Lord Trevelyan as Amelia slipped out into the garden. The last thing she heard before the door closed behind her was, _"So, Lord T, what do you think of redheads?"_

She barely had time to glance about the garden, however, before she was hailed by a trio of ladies who seemed to have gone out of their way to appear identical to one another.

"My Lady Inquisitor, may we have a word? It's very important."

As she turned her attention to them, they curtsied. Her knees tried to curtsy back, but were overruled by her brain, which insisted on a bow as another of the ladies spoke. "The Empress has sent us with a message for you."

"I am always honored to hear from Her Majesty," Amelia said politely, adding in the back of her mind, _Even when her messengers have terrible timing_. She had no idea how long Bull could keep Lorent busy, after all.

"Oh, she is the honored one, Inquisitor," the third lady spoke, swiftly followed by the first once more.

"Empress Celene is eager to assist the Herald of Andraste in her holy endeavor," she said warmly.

"She will pledge her full support to the Inquisition as soon as the usurper Gaspard is defeated," the second of the trio intimated.

_And there it is,_ Amelia thought. She'd wondered how long it would take for Celene to try and place _her_ problem into the Inquisition's lap. "That's a generous offer," she said aloud, to the approval of her audience.

"The Empress believes wholeheartedly that the Inquisition is our best hope for peace in these difficult times," the first lady said confidently.

The third continued on for her. "She looks forward to cementing a formal alliance."

"As soon as Gaspard is out of the way," the second added.

"But we have taken enough of your time," the third lady trilled merrily.

"Please enjoy the masquerade, Inquisitor," the first encouraged, and with another curtsy in unison, the trio swept through the door and out of sight.

Amelia hid her sigh as she turned her attention to the garden. All she needed now was for Ambassador Briala to offer to scratch her back, and she'd have a hat-trick. At least she could depend on Lorent not to do the same - he'd rather die than suggest she could possibly help him. Now then ... the Guest Wing.

She wandered the garden, indulging her curiosity in the convenient door opposite as discreetly as possible. It was locked, and there were too many eyes around to risk asking one of her rogue friends to try their luck with it. Circling around behind Varric as he fielded questions from his multitude of admirers, she sipped from her glass, studying her surroundings. So if Cole's _words that do not speak_ referred to the Grand Library, she might be able to kill two birds with one stone. The trouble was, how was she supposed to get to the _place above where Dorian dances?_ Dorian _was_ here in the garden, and above him _was_ a balcony, but ... Her eyes focused on the sturdy lattice trained with roses that stood against the wall beneath the balcony. That had potential.

With a nod to Varric, she moved to join Dorian. Her Tevinter cousin was a stunning combination of totally at his ease, and so on edge that he twanged. "This is all so familiar," he declared as he took the wine glass from her hand. "I half expect my mother to materialize from the crowd and criticize my manners."

Amelia laughed softly. "What if she were actually here?" she teased him. "Where would we be then?"

"Short one mage, after he's dragged out by his earlobe," he informed her, lowering his voice to add, "There was some kind of scuffle on the balcony a short while ago."

"I'm having difficulty picturing that," she laughed again at his comment on his mother, dropping her own voice to a whisper to respond to his intimation. "I need to scale the lattice to get up there."

"Picture me a young boy of five years, then," Dorian suggested playfully. "She certainly always has." He took a sip of wine, using the action to cover the movement of his lips. "Varric and I thought as much. Give us a moment, and you'll have your distraction."

"I owe you," she murmured, raising her voice as she stepped away. "Try not to get too drunk."

Dorian sighed exaggeratedly. "You ask so much of me," he declared, making significant eye contact with Varric across the garden.

As Amelia stepped away, her dwarven friend launched into _The Tale of the Champion_ in full oratory style, drawing the attention of most eyes in the garden. Those who weren't enthralled by Varric's storytelling were gently touched with Dorian's personal modification of the spell Sleep. They remained upright, their eyes open, but their minds were taking a short nap. At Dorian's nod, she turned her attention to scaling the lattice as quickly and quietly as possible, silently thanking the Maker for her leather gloves at the discovery that the trained roses had half-inch long thorns.

Once up there, she was quick to get out of sight of a casual glance from below. In front of her, a door stood open, through which she could see a small portion of the library. Words that do not speak, indeed. But there was nothing to _find_. What few papers there were seemed to relate to the books that lay open beside them. In frustration, aware that she was running out of time, Amelia began to search frantically behind the books on the shelves, tipping them toward her in the hope of finding something concealed behind. She hadn't been expecting one of those books to strike a hidden switch and make an entire section of the bookshelves slide silently out and across to reveal a secret study. Luck was still with her, it seemed.

It took only a moment of searching to turn up Cole's secret - a letter from Celene to one Lady M, making mention of some unpleasantness in the royal wing and requesting magical protection. So Celene _was_ aware of the danger in her palace tonight, though she seemed to believe it originated with Gaspard, and had taken steps for her own protection. Despite Leliana's dark suspicion, it would appear that this Morrigan could be tentatively removed from their list of suspects.

Now then, as to this scuffle ... She slipped from the library, skirting carefully along the wall until she was directly above where Dorian stood. A gentle spell warmed the lock of a second door until she could force it, conjuring a small light to see by once inside. It was a storage room, disordered but not cluttered. The only real sign of the scuffle Dorian had heard lay in the blood-stained documents that had been left in the corner. Amelia picked them up, scanning the words quickly. They seemed to be Gaspard's official negotiation requests, complete with a warning to Celene about Briala. Odd, that they didn't seem to have ever reached the Empress. What had she received in their stead?

Sliding both documents into her tunic, she dismissed her light and stepped back onto the balcony, peering cautiously over the stone railing to catch Dorian's eye. He checked the garden's inhabitants, and nodded to her to come down. A minute or so later, she was safely back on the ground, and Dorian's erstwhile sleepers awakened as Varric's audience burst into rapturous applause. Better yet, Lorent was still caught in Bull's clutches when she slipped back inside, the Qunari tossing her a grin as he continued to harangue her brother on the merits of all redheads.

Blackwall caught her attention as she passed back through the Hall of Heroes, gesturing for her to join him. "My lady," he said quietly, handing her an open cylinder seal. "Saw one of the elven servants drop this. Then a masked elf read it and left it where it lay. Think she intended one of us to find it."

"So that would be Ambassador Briala, then," she said warily. "Let's see what she wants us to see." Opening the message, she frowned. "Four servants have gone into the servants' wing in the last two hours," she paraphrased. "This is asking Briala for help."

"Help with what?" Blackwall asked, but before she could make a guess, the great bell sounded, summoning all guests back to the ballroom for toasts.

"Oh, hell," she swore, digging the other documents out of her tunic. "Here, get these to Leliana. I have to go and play nice again."

"Good luck, my lady."

She left him there to make his own way into the ballroom, moving herself to join the parade of nobles filing dutifully back in answer to the bell. There were more people here than she had realized, dispersed as they had been throughout the rooms left public for the gathering, and any one of them could be the assassin she was searching for. It was so frustrating! They had been here almost three hours now, and all they had to show for it was a handful of documents that only proved what she already knew - that the three players in the peace talks were up to something, each working to their own agenda. At this rate, the assassin would be able to strike freely, and all she'd be able to do was stand by and watch. Yet, as she stepped into the vestibule among the crowd of nobles, her uncanny luck came through for her yet again.

"Well, well ... what have we here?" a cultured Ferelden voice said by her ear. "The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the Faith, delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of Blessed Andraste Herself." Amelia turned her head to meet a glinting, yellow-eyed gaze. "What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial court, I wonder? Do even _you_ know?"

"Lady Morrigan." Amelia inclined her head as she put a name to the striking woman before her, stepping out of the flow of bodies at the apostate's invitation. "We may never know why I am here. Courtly intrigue, and all that."

"Such intrigues obscure much, but not all." The other woman looked her over, those unsettling eyes of hers sharp with intelligence. "I _am_ Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane. _You_ have been very busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the palace. Perhaps you and I ... hunt the same prey."

"I don't know," Amelia said, her tone appraising. She still wasn't certain this woman wasn't an enemy. "Do we?"

Morrigan laughed at her dissembling. "You are being coy."

Amelia let herself smile. "I am being careful," she corrected lightly.

She saw Morrigan's opinion of her rise at this. "Not unwise, here of all places," she conceded sagely. "Allow _me_ to speak first, then." She gestured for Amelia to walk with her a little way from the slowly moving nobles. "Recently I found and killed an unwelcome guest within these very halls. An agent of Tevinter. So I offer you this, Inquisitor." She withdrew a small piece of metal from her bodice, pressing it into Amelia's hand. "A key, found on the Tevinter's body. Where it leads, I cannot say, yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search. _You_ can."

Amelia barely glanced at the key, tucking it into her tunic as she recalled the letter she had read from Celene to this Lady M. "You left Celene alone once already this evening," she pointed out. "Was that wise?"

"I must return to her anon, but she is safe enough, for the moment." Those yellow eyes studied her thoughtfully. "T'would be a great fool who strikes at her in public, in front of all her court and the Imperial Guard. Would it not?"

"So I keep hearing." But Corypheus did not seem the type to care about losing his agents. All he cared about was the success of his ventures. Amelia wasn't holding out much hope for a calm resolution to the situation. "What's your interest in protecting Empress Celene? Are you her bodyguard?"

Morrigan's laugh was mocking. "Do I seem a bodyguard to you?" she asked, though her amusement soon fled. "If anything were to happen to Celene, eyes would turn first to her occult advisor, even if they knew otherwise. There are sharks in the water, and I will _not_ fall prey to them. Not now, not _ever_."

"Why did you kill the agent?" Amelia asked then, though she thought she knew the answer. The Venatori were not the sort to leave witnesses alive if they could help it. "He might have had useful information."

"I would not have slain the man on sight, had he not attacked _me_ on sight," Morrigan defended her actions easily. "Why, undoubtedly I caught him in an illicit act. I did not know from whence he came until after the battle, and regret only that I could not capture him alive. What intentions the Imperium has here, I suspect _you_ know better than I."

"Where did this battle take place?"

Morrigan seemed impressed by the pointed question. "In the servants' garden," she answered. "I believe his intent was to enter the Grand Apartments."

The servants' wing, where four servants had entered and not come out. A door that does not open, Cole had said, and now she had a key. One thing was now certain in her mind - Morrigan was not her enemy tonight, no matter the woman's motivations. The intuition Cullen had so much faith in was sure of that. "I might find the time to try a door or two."

The apostate mage nodded graciously. "Proceed with caution, Inquisitor," she warned. "Enemies abound, and not all of them aligned with Tevinter. What comes next will be most exciting." She turned to rejoin the milling guests. "Oh ... and do give my greeting to Leliana. The little bard must be so _pleased_ to see an old ... friend."

Amelia watched her go, hearing the second bell ring to hurry along the guests. At least she had her list of six narrowed down to five; perhaps even four? This all seemed a little too involved for Lorent's machinations. Despite his forthcoming marriage to the Grand Duchess, there seemed little for him to gain from an unstable Orlais, and her brother never acted where there was no clear advantage for him. Still, his betrothed _did_ seem to have some involvement, and he _had_ mentioned that he shared her ambition. Did that ambition include removing both Celene and Gaspard from the line of succession, thereby gaining the throne of Orlais for themselves? Five suspects, then, with two acting in tandem. But she had no _proof._

A few minutes conferring with Leliana and Josephine during the toasts, however, laid a plan in place. Once Leliana's agents had managed to conceal the Inquisitor's weapons and armor near the door to the servants' wing, she would take a small party to investigate. Since that was going to take time, Josephine insisted that Amelia do another circuit of the ballroom, directing her to a few interested parties who genuinely wanted the Inquisition's friendship. She laughed, she made witty conversation, she flattered, she danced, but finally she found a moment to check in with her husband.

Cullen was, indeed, under siege. His position in the ballroom had been chosen for the view it offered of all the entrances and exits, but unfortunately it made _him_ very visible to the guests. Beauty drew Orlesians like nugs to shite, and the Commander of the Inquisition _was_ beautiful. The fact that he was married did nothing to dissuade his crowd of admirers. They were relentless, and more than a little free with their hands. Amelia was privileged to witness one such exchange as she approached.

"Did you just ... grab my bottom?"

The richly dressed marquis to his left spread his hands innocently. "I'm a weak man," was his only excuse.

Cullen frowned, embarrassed, edging a little further away from the man. He was deeply uncomfortable with all this unwelcome attention. "I am a married man, marquis," he pointed out in disapproving tones.

"Do you have a mistress, commander?" another man - a comte - asked curiously.

"He doesn't need one, my lord," Amelia said as she inserted herself into the gathering around her husband. Cullen's expression went from disapproving to relieved, pleased to see her well and even more pleased to hear her defending him.

"Inquisitor!" The curious comte was utterly unfazed by the arrival of the commander's formidable wife. "Your presence at court is quite ... _stirring_. Perhaps _you_ have need for a mistress?"

Amelia laughed at the shameless question, gently laying her hand on Cullen's arm as he bristled. "You can see my husband, my lord," she said with charming understatement. "Does it seem to you that I need someone else in my bed?"

The group laughed - the comte with wry understanding, the others at his public rejection. Cullen was _not_ laughing, however, swallowing down half his drink in one gulp as Amelia drew him away from his admirers and into the shadow of a nearby window drape.

"You shouldn't encourage them," he complained quietly, relaxing as she ran her hands down his arms. "I don't know who any of them are, and they won't leave me alone."

"I take it you're not enjoying yourself?" she teased fondly.

He sighed. "At this point, the headache I'm developing is preferable to the company," he groaned, only exaggerating a little to incite her sympathy.

"Believe me, a headache would be a gift if it meant I didn't have to speak to these preening ninnies," she assured him, happier when he finally cracked a smile. "I don't suppose you'd save a dance for _me?"_

"No, thank you." He finished what was in his glass, twisting to set it aside.

"Oh." She blinked, unaccountably stung by his polite rejection, dropping her gaze down to study the gold buttons on his tunic. She knew he wasn't much of a dancer, but did he really prefer being ogled by all those strangers to dancing with her?

Cullen's eyes widened as his ears caught up with his mouth. "No! I didn't mean to -" he let out a frustrated huff. "Maker's breath ... I've answered that question so many times, I'm rejecting it automatically." His gloved hand gently tipped her chin up until she met his apologetic eyes. "You know I'm not one for dancing," he reminded her, his voice intimately soft. "But I have _very_ much enjoyed watching you dance tonight."

"You're not enjoying _their_ attention?" she asked uncertainly, the flicker of her eyes alluding to his eager crowd of admirers not too far away.

He snorted with laughter. "Hardly."

He dipped his head, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that left her in no doubt on that score. He hated being here, hated being under scrutiny, hated that she was in so much danger ... but he loved _her_. She clung to him, startling herself with how much she _needed_ that kiss. There was so little here she could take confidence in, but Cullen was definitely worth that confidence. He tasted of the wine he had been drinking, but his words were the true intoxicant.

_"Yours_ is the only attention worth having," he promised her in a tender growl.

She smiled, her head reeling from that kiss. "I have to investigate the servants' wing," she told him softly. "I won't be long."

His fingers delicately stroked against her cheek as he released her. "Be careful, Ame."

Stepping away, Amelia scanned the crowd, her eyes feeling itchy all of a sudden. She was so tired. It had been an interminably long day, and already past midnight with a full night's work ahead of her. One thing at a time, though. She needed a group to come to the servants' wing with her. She nodded to Sera, who abandoned her private amusement to join her.

"Meet me in the Hall of Heroes," she told her friend quietly as they walked toward the vestibule. "Made any new friends?"

Sera laughed derisively. "Not likely," she declared in a merry tone. "I'm watching them all watch _you_. They're all glances and titters, not sure if they're allowed to like you yet. Pathetic."

Amelia smiled along with her, reaching up to stifle an unexpected yawn. "Any - oh!" Her hand snapped out as she stumbled, saved from a humiliating fall by Sera's vice-like grip on her arm.

"Not much of a drinker, are you?" the elf teased as they righted her. "Holy Inquisitor going arse over tit in front of all these nobs, not good."

"No, not good," Amelia agreed, blinking to try and clear her vision. Things were a little blurry for some reason. "The wine's stronger than I'm used to, I suppose. Thank you, Sera. But you go on ahead."

"If you're sure ..." Sera eyed her warily for a moment. "Pretentious room full of statues, here I come."

Chuckling at her friend's parting shot, Amelia made her way into the vestibule, walking with exaggerated care. Her weariness was starting to hit her, it seemed; her legs felt leaden, her eyes having difficulty adjusting to the change in light level away from the ballroom. She was having such difficulty focusing that it was only the firm hand on her elbow that prevented her from walking straight past Cassandra.

"Are you all right, Inquisitor?" the Seeker asked in concern, reaching to steady her as she swayed on her feet.

"I'm fine," Amelia insisted, barely hearing the slur in her own words. "Just tired, that's all. There was something ... something I wanted to ..."

She swayed backward, caught from another fall by Cassandra's hands on her arms. The room was spinning, her vision darkening as her knees buckled, her fingers gripping her friend's tunic weakly. The taste on her lips was back, a potent blend she suddenly recognized just a few moments too late. _Andraste's arse_ , was her last thought as she pitched forward into Cassandra's arms, the world abruptly going black.

_"Inquisitor!"_


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral, part the third

Commander Cullen Rutherford was not enjoying the delights of Halamshiral. As a Ferelden, he held an inherited distaste for all things Orlesian; as a soldier, he despised all the scheming and politicking. He was a practical man; if a problem needed solving, he preferred to solve it, not wait around and trap someone else into doing all the work for him. Yet here, he was obliged to stand and wait, trusting that others had the situation well in hand. It did not sit well with him, especially when the most prominent of those _others_ was his own wife. The Imperial court watched her like a flock of vultures watches a dying man in the desert, each player just waiting for the opportunity to strike, and he hated it.

It made his blood boil to hear them discussing her - their petty judgments based on her looks, her bearing, the power she held, the influence she wielded. To him, she was beautiful, strong; to hear them dissect every nuance of her being in such derogatory terms was infuriating. They saw her as vulnerable, and were eager to take aim; yet, as the night wore on, he noted a change in those overheard conversations. Plain became striking; dull, charming; weak, strong; and all the while, one word was hinted at, but remained unspoken - _dangerous_. Whether a danger to themselves or to others, the court began to recognize the merits of staying on the Inquisitor's good side. And this, he approved of ... until they started to involve him.

It began simply enough. Cordial introductions, asinine comments on the ball, futile invitations to dance, that sort of thing. When this didn't draw him into offering anything even remotely resembling a hint of support for their interests, it became flattery - comments on his handsome face, his broad shoulders, his _remarkable_ eyes. Then the innuendo began. Surrounded by courtiers both male and female, he was besieged with increasingly tortured metaphor - offers to _tame his dragon, ride his bronto, pet his serpent,_ and other terrible, obvious attempts to seduce him into coming down hard on their side. Each one he politely rejected, gritting his teeth against angry words when, finally, they began to pass comment on Amelia. He didn't want to know that Comtess Emilie thought his wife's naked body must be glorious in the moonlight, or that Marquis DuBarron had speculated with several of his friends on the sounds the Herald of Andraste would make in bed. He had to quite literally bite his own tongue when the Baron of Val Chevin suggested that the Inquisitor should pose nude for him, so he could paint her as _Andraste In Ecstacy at The Maker's Love_. But perhaps he _should_ have reacted to that. Perhaps then they wouldn't have started ... fondling him when he wasn't looking.

Maker, the way they behaved was appalling! Didn't they _care_ that he was married? Not only married, but devoted to his wife, who was quite possibly the most powerful woman they were ever likely to meet. Did they think that the whole world should join them in their casual disregard for their marriage vows? Even if he were not in love with Amelia, he would never shame her by responding to these selfish, thoughtless solicitations. Honestly, did _anyone_ ever respond favorably when a pampered nobleman just came right out and offered to be not only their mistress, but their spouse's, too? Quite apart from the sheer presumption of such an offer, it galled Cullen to know that the man didn't make the suggestion from any particular interest in himself or Amelia, but as an attempt to place himself in a position of influence within the Inquisition. He couldn't help wondering if any of them would dare to be so bold if his wife were with him, only to discover that, yes, they would.

He had no idea how she could just laugh off that indecent proposal, but it was a relief to be claimed and pulled out of sight of his annoying band of admirers. It was only a couple of minutes, but it was time enough to reassure her that he was not tempted to stray, and him that she was handling the poison of the court without harm. He envied the fact that she was going to escape for a while, even if knowing she was going in blind gave him more cause to worry. Still, he would prefer a straight fight to all this Orlesian nonsense.

Thank the Maker for that short reprieve, though. The comments renewed as soon as he returned to his post, and this time, there was no gentle build up.

"Tell me commander," the curious comte said conversationally, "are you familiar with the concept of _ménage à trois?"_

As it happened, Cullen _was_ familiar with the concept, and his angry flush said as much to everyone there. "I don't believe that is an appropriate topic, comte," he managed to say, but the man couldn't take a hint.

"I mention it only because you and your wife seem to share an uncommon bond," the comte went on. "It is well known that the couple who plays together, stays together."

"Let me assure you, my lord, that fidelity is not uncommon in Ferelden, or the Free Marches," Cullen told him firmly. "My wife and I need no assistance to stay together."

"But I have heard that your marriage was not desired by you," a giggly marquise interjected, her eyes fixed on his lips as he gratefully took another glass of wine from the elven servant who offered it. "A man ordered to wed is not expected to be faithful in Orlais."

_That bloody book again,_ he thought, silently cursing Varric for ever having started the damned thing. "I am not Orlesian, my lady," he pointed out through clenched teeth, swallowing another mouthful of wine. "I do not need to take a part in Orlesian pastimes."

"Would you like an Orlesian to take part in you?"

Cullen choked on his wine, groping for a napkin to wipe his mouth and chin as the nobles gathered around him erupted into tittering laughter, delighted with his response to the blunt tease offered to him. He scowled, trying to restrain himself from punching the baron who had made that suggestion. What was _wrong_ with these people? Any answer he might have come up with, however, was thankfully forestalled by the unexpected arrival of Solas at his side.

"Commander, may I?" Without waiting for the requested permission, the elven apostate took the glass from his hand, raising it to sniff delicately at the contents. "Ah, I have discovered the source," the mage said cryptically, removing a small vial from his pouch. "Drink this, commander. I would not recommend taking any more drinks offered by the servants."

"What is wrong with the wine?" Cullen asked with a suspicious frown.

"Aside from being an inferior vintage, it would seem to have been poisoned, commander." Solas made no attempt to lower his voice as he said this, sending Cullen's gaggle of unwelcome admirers into panicked retreat. They scattered from the commander's side, abandoning their own glasses in favor of finding somewhere reasonably private to force themselves to vomit before swallowing down as many antidotes as they could find in the immediate vicinity.

Amusing as that might have been, the context deeply worried Cullen. "How did you know about the poison?" he asked the elf, pausing to drink the contents of the vial. He may not have _liked_ Solas much, but he trusted the man. It was certainly an astringent mixture, the painful tang as he swallowed suggesting it was freshly made from whatever had been harvested within the last hour. "Did Amelia discover something already?"

"In a manner of speaking." Solas was a master at giving unsatisfactory answers, and it seemed that was all Cullen was getting out of him. "You were the target, certainly. Excuse me, I must speak with Lady Leliana."

As the elf slipped from his side, Cullen realized with a start that someone here had tried to kill him. Not Amelia, not any of her private circle, but _him_. Yet who could have tried it? He doubted his now absent crowd of hangers-on had been responsible, given their collective horror at the mere idea of poison. No, it seemed more likely that the ineffectual contamination had been supplied to him by the servant who had refilled his glass. That, in itself, pointed the finger of blame at Ambassador Briala, but what did she have to gain from poisoning the Commander of the Inquisition? Unless _she_ was the agent of Tevinter ... but if she wanted him dead, he doubted she would have used a poison that didn't seem to have had any effect on him at all. And since it had no effect, how had Solas known to check his glass for poison?

He scowled, angry at the lack of answers, casting his gaze about the room. The familiar bulk of the Iron Bull had taken up station beside Josephine and her sister, no doubt delighting young Yvette; a flicker near Vivienne suggested that Cole was not far from the enchanter, summoned back from his snooping to stand guard. Solas and Leliana had their heads bent together across the room ... and it wasn't long before Dorian came sauntering to _his_ side.

"What is going on, Dorian?" he demanded in a low growl. It was plain to see that the Inquisition had closed ranks in the Inquisitor's absence, but the lack of information was sorely testing his temper.

"My dear fellow, do relax," Dorian told him, but he knew his friend well enough to recognize the tense undercurrent in the urbane tone. "Never fear, for I, Dorian Pavus, am your bodyguard for the remainder of the evening."

" _Dorian_ ..." Now was not the time for teasing. "How did Solas know there was a poison in my wine?"

The Tevinter mage seemed surprised he needed to ask. "Process of elimination, dear chap," he said in a level tone. "When Amelia collapsed, it was simply a case of retracing her steps." He blanched - Cullen was suddenly gripping his upper arm far too tightly for comfort.

"Amelia _collapsed?_ " the worried husband repeated, his voice low but frantic. "Where is she? What happened?"

Dorian stared at him. "Solas didn't tell you anything, did he?"

"Tell me _what?"_ Cullen demanded, fighting to keep his voice low. "What the _hell_ has happened to my wife?"

"Far less than could have happened to you," Dorian said calmly. "Let go of me, and I will tell you."

Reluctantly, Cullen released his grip, feeling slightly ashamed of himself as his friend rubbed the offended limb. He didn't like being kept in suspense, but he knew someone would have come for him if Amelia was in serious trouble. "I apologize," he murmured. "Please, Dorian. Tell me what's happened."

"Very well." Behind the cover of smoothing his mustache, Dorian filled him in. "Shortly after she left the ballroom, Amelia collapsed into Cassandra's arms," he told the worried man beside him. "She is perfectly fine - as far as I know, she is busy slaughtering Venatori in the servants' wing as we speak. Solas identified the poison as he healed her and enlisted a couple of the servants to help him create the antidote; a nasty little concoction from my homeland, I am ashamed to say, known as _mortsomnus_. Quite literally, the sleep of death. It does have one interesting peculiarity, however - it only takes effect on those who have lyrium in their system. Someone is operating on out-of-date information on you, Cullen."

"But they used it on _her_ ," Cullen pointed out, not sure he was happy with Amelia fighting so soon after being poisoned. Still, she was stubborn enough to stay upright until she was out of the ballroom; who was he to suggest she should take better care of herself?

"Interestingly, no," Dorian said, his tone light. "The dose she took was minuscule, or she would certainly be dead."

"And the poison was in _my_ glass," Cullen said slowly, the truth dawning on him. Again? He had put his own wife's life in danger _again?_ "I kissed her. I had a drink, and then I kissed her. Maker's breath, Dorian, I almost killed my wife. For the third time!"

For a long moment, Dorian said nothing, his expression making it absolutely clear how stupid that declaration was. "Glossing over the unnecessary guilt and inappropriate angst," he said eventually, as Cullen flushed under that look, well aware that he wasn't reacting entirely appropriately to the situation. It wasn't his fault someone had tried to poison him, and kissing his own wife was not a crime. "Someone in this room wants _you_ dead. Leliana and Solas are investigating; _I_ am here to defend your noble life. And your virtue, if it comes to it."

"My virtue does not need defen - my _life_ does not need defending," the commander bristled. He was angry now - angry that he had been attacked personally, angry that Amelia had almost died because of it, and angry that he couldn't do a damned thing about it. Leliana _was_ the right person to investigate this, and he knew it.

"Do you have any idea what my favorite cousin would do to me if I allowed anything to happen to you?" Dorian asked, both brows raised above a teasingly serious smile. "Terrible things. Probably starting with my testicles."

Despite himself, Cullen let out a low laugh. The thought of Amelia ever raising a hand against Dorian was patently absurd. "You're sure she's recovered?" he asked, letting the anger go to indulge his concern.

"Perfectly well," Dorian assured him. "Furious, which is just as well. She was wilting a bit before this. And with the antidote in your system, no more ill effects from illicit canoodling on the job."

"We were _not_ -" Catching Dorian's smirk, Cullen sighed, rolling his eyes. "All right, fine. I had her half-naked on the balcony. Better?"

"Not as good as _you_ half-naked on the balcony, but I'll take what I can get," his friend chuckled warmly.

With Dorian at his side, there were no more admirers brave enough to approach Cullen. It was clear to everyone that something had happened - the Inquisition _had_ closed ranks, and as the rumor of poison spread, very few were inclined to continue imbibing so freely as they had before. An aura of tense fear settled over the ball, made somehow worse when it became obvious that the peace talks were breaking down. Gaspard was seen marching away from Celene, shaking his head in disgust. Increasingly, talk turned to war, with the various factions making themselves known as they separated from one another throughout the ballroom.

Into all this walked Amelia, cheeks flushed from exertion, with Grand Duchess Florianne on her arm. Seeing her upright and unharmed, albeit a little disheveled, Cullen found himself breathing more easily again, flashing her a brief smile as the two women passed on the way to the dancefloor. She couldn't respond, but that moment of eye contact unwound the tight knot in his stomach. As the music began, a gentle hand touched his back, Leliana's voice close to his ear.

"Ambassador Briala has someone she wants us to meet," she murmured to him. "Dorian can stay here as our point of contact. I think you will want to hear this, commander."

Tearing his gaze from his wife, Cullen nodded, glancing to Dorian just to make sure. The mage toasted him with his own personal hip flask in answer and, reassured, the commander stepped back into the shadows, turning to follow Leliana around the edge of the room and out onto the opposite balcony. The ambassador was waiting for them, with two of the elves who had been serving drinks all night.

"Commander," Briala greeted him with a nod. "Nightingale. I trust there have been no further attempts on the Inquisition?"

"Not yet," Leliana answered levelly. "We have taken steps to protect our own."

"Then allow me to solve the mystery," the elven ambassador offered. "In exchange for protection, Jennet and Silas are willing to testify against the one who attempted a poisoning in the Imperial ballroom."

"Are they?" Cullen turned a stern gaze onto the two elves. They looked vaguely familiar, but sadly, he had not truly noted the faces of the elves who had been serving him tonight. He would have to improve on that - just because they were elves and servants did not mean they were below his notice. "Who do you need protection from?"

"Lord Trevelyan, the Duchess' betrothed," Jennet burst out. "He wants you dead, commander, and he'll kill us for failing."

"How much did he pay you?" Leliana asked sharply. "Where did you get your hands on such a rare poison?"

"It-it was the lord," Silas stammered. "H-he gave us the b-bottles."

"There was no payment, Lady Nightingale," Briala added. "Lord Trevelyan discovered them working on _my_ orders. It was a choice between obedience and death, and his offer of death would have been lingering."

"He'll not have the chance to harm you," Cullen promised the pair. Perhaps he should have resented their actions, but he knew how this world worked. Don't blame the weapon; blame the hand that wields it. "Do you know why he wanted _me_ dead?"

"It-it was a test, ser," Silas told him nervously. "If you went down to the poison, we were to give it to the Lady Inquisitor. It must have been a bad batch."

"Serves him right for wasting money on Tevinter rubbish," Jennet added in disgust.

"All right, come with me," Cullen told them. "I'll see you to safety."

It was the work of only a few minutes to deliver the two elves to his sergeant, their safety assured in exchange for their testimony. Well worth missing Amelia's dance. So Lorent Trevelyan had finally made his move. He had made no secret of his desire to see _all_ his siblings dead; it stood to reason that he would focus on Amelia now she was the last remaining rival to his inheritance. Cullen wondered if the man even suspected the real reason his plan had failed. If Amelia had not been _so_ insistent on weaning him off the lyrium slowly, he might well have gone back to it, and thus Lorent's poison would have done its work on him tonight. It seemed gloriously fitting that she'd saved both their lives month ago, probably even before her brother came up with his scheme. Lorent had never been able to outwit his baby sister, even when she had no idea what he was up to.

Leliana rejoined him as he entered the ballroom, both of them heading to where Josephine had drawn Amelia to one side.

"Were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?" the spymaster asked, sounding inappropriately excited to Cullen's ears.

"More importantly, are you all right?" he interjected, meeting his wife's eyes with anxious concern. "What happened in the servants' quarters? I heard there was fighting."

"The Venatori were there," Amelia told them in a low tone. "Blackwall took a bad hit - Solas is seeing to him now. Between us and Briala's agents, we managed to clear them out, but Briala lost a lot of people down there tonight."

"That explains a little help she just gave us," Leliana said thoughtfully. "I _had_ wondered at her motivation."

Before Amelia could ask, Josephine spoke up. "I hope you had some success in narrowing the field," she said worriedly. "It appears the peace talks are crumbling."

"I'm not sure you could call it success," Amelia answered. "The Grand Duchess just tried to convince me Gaspard is the traitor, but I'm not sure I buy it."

"Florianne and her brother are as thick as thieves," Leliana mused. "But if Lorent was acting on _her_ suggestion ..."

"Wait ... Lorent?" Amelia frowned, glancing between the three of them with curious eyes.

"Is our poisoner," Cullen told her as gently as he could manage. "We have proof, and that you were the ultimate target."

She seemed to sag imperceptibly. "I had hoped he wasn't involved in this," she admitted in a reluctant tone. "Just conspiracy to murder is enough to rob my father of his last remaining child."

"You cannot focus on that right now," Leliana told her - unnecessarily harsh, in Cullen's view, but unfortunately warranted. "What did Duchess Florianne tell you?"

Straightening her shoulders, Amelia pulled her thoughts away from her foolish brother and the consequences of his actions. "She said Gaspard's mercenary captain is in the Royal Wing," she told them. "That he knows about the assassination."

Cullen snorted with derision. That was an even more obvious set up than Redcliffe had been. "Trap," he said simply.

Amelia nodded in agreement. "That's what I thought."

"So what should we do?" Josephine asked in a hopeless tone.

"Well, I'm going to the Royal Wing," Amelia told her confidently. "She's gone to so much effort to set this up, I feel I shouldn't disappoint her. Leliana, have your agents arrest Lorent as discreetly as possible. If I'm right about all this, Florianne won't even notice he's gone." As Leliana nodded, Amelia turned her eyes to Cullen. "It's time. Get your soldiers into position."

"At once." But before she could walk away again, he reached out to catch her hand. "Be _careful_ , Ame."

She paused, looking up at him with a confident smile. "For the first time this evening, I know what's going on," she assured him, rising onto her toes to kiss him in front of all those curious eyes. "I'll be fine."

He didn't wait to watch her walk away, oddly reassured by her confidence that she knew what was happening. The momentum of the evening was finally rushing toward its inevitable conclusion, and he had work to do. He just had to hope that she really _did_ know what she was doing.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halamshiral, part the fourth ... and last!

Grand Duchess Florianne was a gloater. Why wasn't _that_ a surprise?

It seemed to run in the family. Gaspard was exactly the type to gloat over an enemy, and if what they'd found in Celene's bedroom was anything to go by, the Empress was clearly just as prone to a good gloat as her cousins. Amelia had a certain fondness for gloaters; their intense need to listen to the sound of their own voice often gave her all the time she needed to work out how to thwart them. Case in point - yes, she and her party were currently in the sights of archers while the Duchess congratulated herself on her evil plan, but this pause meant that Amelia had the time to mentally prepare herself. The faint glimmer in the air was very familiar, after all; so long as she kept the Anchor hidden behind her back, her enemies here wouldn't have a clue what was coming.

"I fear I'm a bit busy at the moment, if you were looking for a dance partner," she told Florianne sweetly. "Perhaps my brother could fill in for me."

"Your brother is an imbecile," Florianne informed her in a tart tone. "I would not have had to act myself if he had fulfilled his part of our bargain. I fear he may meet with a terrible accident in the chaos tonight."

"And what bargain was that?" Amelia asked. "His child on the throne of Orlais in exchange for my death?"

"Very good, Inquisitor." The Duchess' praise was mocking. "Not that I would ever allow him to touch me, of course. Your Inquisition would have supported me for giving up your murderer."

"You don't think much of us, do you?" Amelia countered, but a part of her was relieved to note that Lorent had apparently _not_ been a part of Corypheus' plan. His ambition had simply made him a weapon in the real enemy's hands.

"On the contrary, I have great respect for you," Florianne insisted with deceptive warmth. "Such a pity you did not save one final dance for me. Yet I have grown so tired of your meddling. Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him."

"Oh, I'm not done dancing yet," Amelia promised in return, flexing her hand behind her back. The Anchor in her palm was throbbing, eager to reach out to the concealed rift above her. "Why kill the Empress? What could Corypheus hope to achieve?"

"You disappoint me." Florianne sighed, her expression exaggerated. "Celene's death is a stepping stone on the path to a better world. Corypheus will enter the Black City and claim the godhood waiting for him. We will cast down your useless Maker and usher in a united world, guided by the hand of an _attentive_ god."

_We,_ Amelia noted. Floriane was so deep in this, she considered herself on a par with the darkspawn magister she served. "You're Orlesian royalty," she pointed out. "Why would you help Corypheus attack your Empire?"

The Duchess laughed. "You think so _small_ , Inquisitor. Why settle for an Empire when Corypheus will remake the entire world?" What little could be seen of her face beneath her mask settled into a self-satisfied smirk. "I admit, I will relish the look on Gaspard's face when he realizes I have outplayed him. He always was a sore loser."

The sibling rivalry, Amelia could relate to. The overweening desire for power, not so much. "Indulge me, your grace," she said, stalling to allow the pressure to build up behind the Anchor. "What, exactly, is in this for you?"

"Why, the _world_ , of course!" Florianne declared. "When Corypheus ascends to godhood, I will rule all Thedas in his name."

"You and he should get used to disappointment," Amelia informed her. "I will not allow that to happen."

"Oh, my dear Inquisitor, you are so naive." Another taunting laugh left the Duchess' lips. "In their darkest dreams, no one imagines _I_ would assassinate Celene myself. All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike. Such a pity you will miss the rest of the ball. They will be talking of it for years." Her air of gaiety dropped, and in its place, she displayed the full weight of her ruthless ambition. "Kill her," she ordered her soldiers coldly, turning to leave. "Bring me the marked hand as proof. It will be a fine gift for the master."

"Bitch." The word was Sera's, but Amelia thought it summed up the Grand Duchess very well.

The door closed. The archers fired ... but Amelia was already moving, diving out of the path of those projectiles to raise the Anchor. It sparked, green Fade fire flaring, and the rift opened, disgorging shades eager for blood. One big hand gripped the back of her armor - Bull, pulling her out of the line of fire as the demons fell on Florianne's terrified troops. He drew her back, behind a stone stone, where Cassandra was untying Gaspard's mercenary captain.

"Andraste's tits, are those _demons?"_ the man demanded, his face ashen with horror. "I knew Gaspard was a bastard, but I didn't think he'd feed me to fucking horrors over a damned bill!"

"The soldiers lost, boss," Iron Bull interjected in amusement from where he was watching the very one-sided battle.

"Then we should deal with the demons ourselves," Cassandra declared, raising her shield.

"Too right," Sera agree, and without further ado, the three of them whipped out of cover to charge the shades feasting on their victims.

"So," Amelia said conversationally, peering out from behind the column to watch. "Duke Gaspard lured you out here?"

"Well, his sister," the mercenary told her, flinching as the second wave of demons came through the rift. "Your people are damned good at this."

"We've had a lot of practice," she told him in a wry tone, twisting past for a moment to cast ice over the rage demon that was giving Cassandra trouble. Bull delivered a massive blow, shattering the frozen form, as the Seeker turned to draw the remaining shades' attention away from Sera. "Why are you here?"

"The Duke wanted to move on the palace tonight, but he didn't have enough fancy chevaliers," the mercenary told her, his eyes fixed on the second increasingly one-sided battle to be fought in this small space. "So he hired me and my men. Had to offer triple out usual pay to get us to come to Orlais. Stinking poncy cheesemongers."

"Want a new job?" she asked mildly.

He blinked in surprise. "You hiring?"

"The Inquisition could always use a good mercenary company," she shrugged as the last demon fell. "Excuse me a moment."

She stepped to the center of the courtyard, raising her left hand toward the pulsating rift. There was a moment of pause, and the Anchor flared for the second time, connecting to the rift with the by-now familiar surge of icy pain enveloping her arm. She gritted her teeth, forcing her will to bear on the Anchor, to reverse its flow and seal the rift in the Veil. Breathing hard in the sudden silence, she turned back to the mercenary.

"Well?"

He shut his open mouth with a snap. "I'm game," he answered, clearly awed by this very present demonstration that the Inquisitor was exactly what the rumors said she was. "You want me to talk to the Empress, the court, sing a bloody song in the Chantry? I'll do it. Anything's better than this bullshit."

She nodded. "Good. Come on, then - we have a ball to crash."

Leading the way, Amelia charged through the empty rooms, mentally blessing Leliana for forcing her to memorize the layout of the Winter Palace. It had seemed so pointless at the time, but right now, that knowledge was going to determine if the Empress lived or died. Right, then left, left again ... She let out an agonized yell as an arrow pierced her armor, slamming deep into her right shoulder.

"Boss!"

Bull was there just a second too late to save her from the armored fist that smashed into her face. There was a dull crack as her nose broke under that blow, blood streaming freely over her mouth and chin as she reeled back. She'd run them straight into a Venatori ambush waiting in the chapel, but her party reacted perfectly. Between Sera's arrows and Bull's barely contained rage, the Tevinter agents didn't stand a chance.

"Amelia!" Cassandra dragged her back onto her feet, both of them ignoring the arrow and the blood for now. "You _have_ to get to the ballroom. Go - we have this!"

Trusting in her friends, Amelia grabbed the bewildered mercenary captain, pulling him toward the door that would take them directly into the ballroom. Spitting a mouthful of blood, she took his hand, wrapping his reluctant fingers about the shaft standing proud from her shoulder. He didn't need her to tell him what to do, bracing his other hand against her chest as he twisted the arrow free. Quite how she managed it, she couldn't guess, but not a squeak left her lips at the new layer of pain that surged to life with that action. Now with a fresh wound, she pulled the door open just far enough to get them into the ballroom, hoping that she wasn't too late.

She couldn't have looked more out of place if she had tried. Armed and armored, her nose swollen and crooked, blood seeping over her lip and from the wound in her shoulder, it was no wonder that her entrance did not go unremarked upon by the elegant Orlesians who noticed her. With quiet panic rising behind her eyes, she dragged the mercenary over to Cullen, her gaze seeking the Grand Duchess in the crush of nobles.

"Thank the Maker you're - what the hell happened?" her husband demanded, his eyes wild as he took in the state of her.

"Trap," she informed him simply. "Look after this man."

Cullen glanced at the mercenary briefly. "Of course, but -" He frowned as she turned away. "The Empress is about to make her speech. What should we do?"

As he asked, Amelia located who she was looking for. Florianne was approaching Celene from behind, Gaspard and Briala before them. There was no _time_ to get a warning to Morrigan. "I've got this," she told her commander fiercely. "Stay here."

"But -"

Whatever his objection, she didn't stay to listen, striding out into the center of the empty dancefloor to approach the Empress herself, indifferent to the picture she presented - a beaten and bloodied mage, armed and armored, striding toward the Empress of Orlais in full view of the Imperial court. She heard the gasps at her appearance, the metallic clanking of the Imperial Guard moving to intercept her, but her focus was entirely upon Florianne. She saw the Grand Duchess' dismay, the flash of the knife, raising her staff as Florianne lunged. The blade scraped harmless over the barrier Amelia cast about the Empress, shocked from the assassin's hand with a loud clatter in the sudden silence.

"We owe the court one more show, your grace," she said, her voice more than a little affected by the break in her nose but loud enough that everyone could hear her. "This is _your_ party. Smile. You wouldn't want your guests to think you had lost control."

"Florianne!" Gaspard sounded truly horrified with his sister's actions. "What have you done?"

"I seem to recall her saying all she needed was to keep me out of the ballroom long enough to strike," Amelia went on, still advancing as Florianne backed straight into the captain of the Imperial Guard. "My brother's poison failed to kill me. When her archers failed to finish the job in the garden, I feared she would not save me this dance."

"Lies!" Florianne spat, but even she knew her defense held no water now. Not with so many witnesses to her treason.

"It was certainly an ambitious plan," Amelia continued, handing her staff to the guardsman who was shadowing her - willingly disarming herself for everyone to see before she entered the Empress' personal space. "Framing your brother for the murder of a Council emissary was almost convincing. Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds ... all your enemies under one roof. And you, the last woman standing by dawn."

"You do not imagine anyone _believes_ your wild stories?" the Duchess protested, still attempting to seem innocent.

"She is not the one who just tried to kill me in front of the entire court," Celene pointed out, ice in her voice as she stared at the woman. "This will be a matter for a judge to decide, cousin."

Outmaneuvered, Florianne turned to her brother. "Gaspard, you cannot believe this. You know I -" But Gaspard turned his back on his sister, disgusted and betrayed. "Gaspard? _Gaspard!"_

"You've lost, your grace," Amelia told her heavily. "And so has your master."

She turned away, shutting her ears to the woman's despairing sobs as the Duchess was lead away by the Imperial Guard. Her face throbbed with sharp pain each time she opened her mouth; blood was dripping from her fingertips; her brother was arrested; her goal, successful; and finally Lady Inquisitor Amelia Amandine Lucille Rutherford had lost all patience with Orlesian politics. She met the Empress' cold eyes with an equally unimpressed gaze.

"Your Imperial Majesty," she said, surprised by how calm she sounded. "I think we should speak in private, with Duke Gaspard and Ambassador Briala. Elsewhere."

Celene attempted to dissemble. "Lady Inquisitor, let us summon a healer and -"

_"Now,_ your majesty."

With bad grace, Celene acquiesced, gesturing for Amelia to lead the way onto the Imperial balcony. The Empress, the Duke, and the ambassador followed, leaving a shocked court behind them. Amelia could only hope her friends and allies could calm the nobles; _she_ had her hands full with the three most powerful people in the country, already at each other's throats even before the doors were closed behind them.

"Your sister has just attempted regicide in front of the entire court, Gaspard," Briala opened with, clearly determined to make an issue of his closeness to his sister.

" _You_ are the spymaster," the Duke countered. "If anyone knew this atrocity was coming, it was you."

"You don't deny your involvement," the elf pointed out calmly.

"I _do_ deny it!" Gaspard snapped. "I knew nothing of Florianne's plans! But you ... _you_ knew it all and did nothing!"

Briala laughed, the sound more of a barb than her words. "I don't know which is better," she taunted him. "That you think I'm all-seeing, or that you're trying so hard to play innocent ... and failing."

"We will not bicker while Tevinter plots against our nation," Celen broke in. "For the safety of the Empire, I _will_ have answers."

"The safety of the Empire has never been your first concern, Celene," Gaspard scoffed.

_"Enough!"_

For a moment, Amelia wasn't sure who had spoken. Then she took in the three masked faces staring at her with varying degrees of disbelief, and it dawned on her. She had just told the three most powerful people in Orlais to shut up ... and to everyone's surprise, including her own, she didn't stop there.

"I have shed my blood, my _friends'_ blood, to bring this evening to a peaceful conclusion," she reminded them, uncomfortably aware that bubbles of bloody mucus were forming from her broken nose with every breath. "Orlais is safe because I risked _my life_ for it. The least you can do is extend me the courtesy of behaving like adults. This _isn't_ a game. Any one of you could have died tonight."

"Inquisitor, these are old arguments between ourselves," Celene began, but Amelia wasn't finished.

"I don't care," she informed the Empress succinctly. "Every one of you is implicated in this debacle. Without your petty squabbles, Florianne would never have had this opportunity. You _all_ conspired to allow this to happen."

For a few heartbeats, there was absolute silence, the trio attempting to stare down a woman who had risked everything for their sake and was sick of their lies; a woman who bore the bloody marks of her struggle only minutes before to ensure that they all stood before her in this moment. Celene broke that silence.

"That ... is a bold claim, Inquisitor," she said, her cold eyes hard behind her mask. "Are you prepared to defend it?"

Amelia glared at her, aware of the threat implied by her tone. "All right, your majesty, if that's how you want to play your _Game_ ," she conceded viciously, trying to ignore the lancing headache pressing at her temples. "You allowed the Grand Duke to sneak soldiers in, hoping he'd make a politically foolish move. My witness was a little ... tied up, when he told me about it."

Celene's pale face flushed beneath her mask, embarrassment and anger combined, but unable to raise an objection without inviting the Inquisitor to share more detail about the witness and where she had found him.

Gaspard looked appraisingly at his cousin. "That's duplicitous even for you, Celene."

" _You_ took the bait," Amelia told him in a sharp tone. "I met your mercenary captain, your grace. He says you were ready to attack tonight."

He didn't have a chance to object or protest; Briala was quick to try and capitalize. "Clever move," she scorned him. _"If_ you were trying to get hanged for treason."

"And Briala was playing both of you." Amelia was quick to head off any sense of advantage. "She murdered your ambassadors and sent you each forged letters."

"Even if I did," Briala said with offensive confidence, "you can't touch me."

"No one will defend you once it's revealed that you and Celene were lovers when she burned Halamshiral's alienage," Amelia pointed out. "You shouldn't send someone to their death just to score political points, ambassador."

The smugness dropped from Briala's face like a stone into a pool, all three of them caught in ripples of embarrassment and fear. Amelia let her stern gaze play over them, from the Empress, to the Duke, to the ambassador. They were afraid of her, and of what she had learned about them tonight, and yet here she stood, a mother hen scolding her errant chicks.

"Very well, Inquisitor, you've made your point," Celene said, her voice cool with resentment. "What do you want?"

"You are three of the best minds in the Empire," Amelia told them flatly. "You could do so much for Orlais and your people if you stopped fighting."

"It is remarkably ... optimistic to believe that the three of us could ever forget our differences, Inquisitor," Celene remarked in a mild tone.

Amelia sighed in frustration. "I don't expect you to forget your differences," she said, trying not to lose her temper. "What I _do_ expect is for you to stop behaving like spoiled children. Set your differences aside, and work together for the good for your people."

"I hardly think that you can compare us to children," Gaspard objected in a laughign tone.

"Really, your grace?" Her voice had turned sharp once again as her attention snapped to him. "The world was falling into chaos, and _you_ started a civil war." Her eyes cut to Celene. " _You_ allowed it to happen, and _you_ ," she met Briala's gaze, "muddied the waters on both sides for your own gain. How dare you, _all_ of you, behave so abominably when the world stands on the brink of destruction?"

That mother hen feeling returned with a vengeance as they all, each in their own turn, avoided her gaze, shuffling their feet under her disappointed ire. Yet none of them argued, their sins laid bare by the Herald of Andraste herself, put into sharp relief against the horrors of the world they each played such a key part in.

"What do you suggest, Inquisitor?" Briala asked finally, politely deferential.

"I suggest that the three of you hammer out some accord between yourselves before you speak to the court," Amelia said wearily, tired of solving other people's problems for one evening. "I'm not a politician; I can't do this _for_ you."

"That ... is a wise suggestion, Inquisitor," Celene agreed, glancing to the others as they nodded with her.

"May _I_ suggest that, while we talk, you look to yourself, my lady?" Gaspard ventured in an almost tentative tone. "You have suffered much on our account tonight, and I fear it shows."

"I will send someone for your healer," Briala said. "And your advisors - I expect you will wish to speak with them."

"Allow me to gift you a gown for the evening," Celene then offered. "Your uniform is sadly ruined." The three were clearly eager to make reparations personally, and for once, Amelia gave in, agreeing to their suggestions for her with a low sigh.

And so, she found herself whisked off to a private room with Solas and Josephine, one of the royal seamstresses, and two elven ladies-maids. The process of resetting her nose was moderately disgusting, not to mention painful, but between copious healing potions and Solas' mastery of healing magic, she was restored to her former self again. One spirited conversation over corsets and petticoats, and the seamstress gave in, raising the hem of the gown Celene had donated to enable it to be worn easily without the ridiculous cage underneath that was the height of Orlesian fashion. Josephine fussed happily over her as she dressed, delighted with the outcome of the evening _and_ the fact of getting the Inquisitor in a gown.

It wasn't actually that bad, Amelia reflected as she studied herself in the mirror. The gown was crimson velvet, with fitted sleeves from wrists to the first curve of her shoulders, the surprisingly modest neckline trimmed with delicate gold lace. The bodice was snug, of course; the skirt falling in heavy folds over a single petticoat to skim the floor. She had lost the argument about her hair, resulting in the thick length being freed from her practical braided bun and curled, caught back in an elaborate waterfall of chestnut. She _had_ won the argument about makeup, and outright refused a mask. But for all their efforts, she was relieved to find that the woman in the looking glass was still _her_.

Thus attired, she returned to the ballroom to witness Celene and Gaspard's speech, glad to note that the three leaders had managed to reach an accord in her absence, even if Briala was still in the shadows. And still the night was not over. Despite her weariness, she was obliged to celebrate with them, and for at least two hours, she didn't leave the dancefloor. She danced with Celene, Gaspard, Briala - causing no little consternation among the nobles -; Leliana, Josephine, Dorian, Solas; comtes, countesses, barons, and dowagers. Everyone, in fact, but the man she _wanted_ to dance with, who had steadfastly remained on the sidelines, and kept blushing every time she looked in his direction.

As the night became the twilight before dawn, she finally managed to escape, stepping out onto an empty balcony to welcome the brisk winter chill on her bare shoulders. Light and music spilled out toward her, but she turned her back on its all, resting her arms on the stone balustrade as she looked out over the dark gardens. Had she really ended a war tonight? Or had she just laid the foundations for something worse in the future?

"The Orlesian nobility make drunken toasts to your victory, and yet you are not there to hear them."

She straightened, curls pouring over her shoulder as she turned her head to find Morrigan standing beside her. The witch smiled, though the expression looked a little odd on her, as though she did not have much occasion to try it.

"Do you tire so quickly of their congratulations, Inquisitor?" she asked lightly. "'Tis most fickle, after all your efforts on their behalf."

Amelia's own lips quirked, weary but warm for the woman who had aided her investigation without expectation of acknowledgement or reward. "I would have stayed, but the punch ran dry," she offered as her excuse. "Scandalous."

This elicited a laugh from Morrigan. "Indeed?" Yet she sobered quickly enough. "I feel I must thank you, for saving Celene's life," she said in a wary tone. "Not even I suspected the Duchess could be so foolish. Yet ... should I also commiserate, for your brother's involvement?"

"For my father's sake, perhaps," Amelia told her softly, feeling the weight of what she still had to do settle on her shoulders. She sighed, glancing out over the gardens once again. "The loss of his last remaining child may kill him."

"Not his last, surely," Morrigan said, her tone measured. " _You_ remain."

Amelia felt herself smile sadly. "The Bann of Ostwick would not acknowledge me, even if I stood before him," she said, her voice heavy with regret. "In his eyes, I am not only a mage, but a heretic. A stain on his family's honor."

"And this troubles you, to have an ignorant man fail to recognize what he has tossed aside?" Morrigan seemed bemused by the notion. "Such a creature is not worth your care."

"But he _is_ my father," Amelia reminded her in a gentle tone. "He loved me, once. And now I may have no choice but to break his heart."

The witch was quiet for a moment, evidently thinking this over. "Then let us see if you take this piece of news as poorly," she said eventually. "By Imperial decree, _I_ have been named liaison to the Inquisition." Seeing the curious glance aimed her way, she went on to explain. "Celene wishes to offer you any and all aid - including mine. Congratulations."

Amelia studied her, a dozen questions forming in her mind. But they could all wait, and who was she to turn away help when it was offered? "Welcome to the Inquisition, Morrigan."

"A most gracious response," Morrigan approved, inclining her head in acceptance. "Allow me to put my affairs in order. I shall meet you at Skyhold."

With that, she left Amelia alone once again. Leliana was likely to have a minor fit over that appointment, but there was nothing for it. They _had_ to stay on the good side of the Orlesian Empire, after all. She sighed, resuming her lean against the stone, aware of a dozen different aches all over her body. Nothing a good night's rest wouldn't cure, but she doubted she would be allowed to leave the Winter Palace yet. No matter how weary she felt, she owed it to Josephine to make a good showing now the crisis had passed.

But there was still so much to do. She _had_ to get to the Western Approach in good time - Stroud and Hawke had already left before they came to Halamshiral, taking the small group of Wardens who had come to Skyhold with them. Each Warden was adamant that their orders were to be in the Western Approach within a month of Satinalia's passing, and by dawn, Satinalia would have passed. Thus Amelia would not be returning to Skyhold with the majority of the party. The Champion and the Wardens needed her in the Approach, and she had no doubt that, once news of tonight spread, Corypheus' plans for the Grey Wardens of Orlais would be accelerated. There was no time! She could feel it slipping through her fingers, charging on ahead with no hope of reprieve any time soon.

"There you are. Everyone's been looking for you."

Yet, tense and tired as she was, the sound of Cullen's voice behind her made her smile. He'd always known when not to leave her alone with her thoughts - a peculiar talent for a man who had been ordered to marry her, once upon a time. He came to her side, resting one elbow on the balustrade as his other hand found her shoulder.

"Things have calmed down for the moment," he told her, his voice gentle in the stillness out here. "Are you all right?"

Her smile warmed under his concern, her fingers brushing the gloved touch on her shoulder. "I'm just tired," she assured him, and it was only a little lie. She _was_ tired, but that wasn't all. "Tonight has been ... very long."

"For all of us," he agreed. His hand slid from her shoulder across her back, curling his palm to her opposite side to tuck her warm and safe against him. "I'm glad it's over."

They stood like that for a long time, easy in each other's silence. Amelia's head drooped onto Cullen's shoulder, her smile flickering wearily once more as he tipped his head to press his lips to her brow. If the court saw them through the open door, they did not react, nor did anyone come to disturb them. They seemed to share the opinion that the Inquisitor had earned a little peace tonight.

"I know it's foolish," Cullen murmured softly, "but I was worried for you tonight."

"I was worried for _you_ ," she admitted in turn. "At least I could fight back. You had to endure all that in the ballroom without lifting a finger."

"I would rather have been at your side," he mused, still speaking in that soft tone that soothed her throbbing senses. "But I don't think I can trust myself to stand back and let you do what needs to be done if I am beside you. I would be too concerned with protecting you, and that could prove disastrous in the field."

Despite herself, Amelia laughed quietly, raising her head to kiss his cheek. "I know exactly what you mean," she agreed in a low tone. "I was so _angry_ you were targeted tonight."

"Lorent has never liked me," he pointed out. "No doubt because, as my wife, you had that additional layer of protection from his schemes. It should not have surprised us that he would try to remove us both."

"How am I supposed to judge him, Cul?" she asked, ashamed of the hitch in her breath. Lorent would shed no tears for _her_ , if their positions were reversed. "Father's already sick. Lorent's disgrace could kill him."

His arm tightened around her, trying to offer some comfort if he could. "He has overplayed his hand," he told her quietly. "The Free Marches are behind the Inquisition, all but Ostwick. If you were to choose leniency, it is likely they would police him themselves. As treacherous as politics are, no one there will willingly support the schemes of a man who has openly attempted sororicide."

He was right about that. While Orlais might accept the casual murder of blood kin as an integral part of their Great Game, the nobles of the Free Marches frowned upon such behavior. It was too similar to the politics of the Tevinter Imperium, and the Marches' freedom from that empire had been hard won not so very long enough. "But if I'm too lenient, the Inquisition will be seen as weak," she pointed out worriedly. "Too harsh, and they'll say I'm using my position for petty revenge."

"You will find the middle ground," he told her, certain of that, at least. "Look at all your have accomplished. We have faith in our Inquisitor."

She sighed, laying her head on his shoulder once more. "Sometimes I wish none of this had ever happened," she murmured. "It's too much for one person to bear."

"You're not alone, Ame," he murmured back. "I will be with you, always."

She tilted her head back, her lips curving into a loving smile as he touched a kiss to the tip of her nose. "I never thought I would have any reason to be grateful to the templars," she confessed softly. "But I do. If it weren't for the Order, I wouldn't have you."

Cullen chuckled fondly, leaning down to grace her lips with a kiss so tender, it made her heart ache. The music that reached out to them from the ballroom changed in that instant, turning from lively to stately as he drew his lips from hers.

"I may never have another opportunity like this, so I must ask," he said with a glance over his shoulder, stepping back to bow and offer her his hand. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

Amelia stared at him, laughing at his sudden change of attitude. He'd been refusing to dance all night. "Of course," she agreed, slipping her hand into his as he straightened. "I thought you _didn't_ dance?"

Cullen laughed with her, gently pulling her close to turn her in a slow, courtly circle. His hands were sure, though his steps were tentative, and she found herself finally relaxing in the circle of his arms. His cheek found its way to hers, keeping that close contact as he murmured to her.

"For you, my love ... I'll try."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I slowed up, but here's another one! I didn't get writer's block, and then lose interest, and then have to pin myself to the table to write more, honest!

Deserts, Amelia had decided, did not agree with her.

The Western Approach was a bleak sort of place, the sand bleached white by the unrelenting sun that beat down them day by day. It was a place of extremes - the heat at the zenith of the day obliged them to take shelter and wait for the air to cool; the nights plunged them into a chill that froze them to their bones. The wildlife pushed the standard of 'wild' farther than she was used to - lurkers and quillbacks stalked the sands; packs of hyenas were bold enough to attack openly; they had even encountered varghests guarding the only source of fresh water. Darkspawn had broken through to haunt the surface, adding a new level of danger in a place where the Venatori's foothold had been particularly difficult to pull out from under them.

She missed Cullen. She missed Skyhold. Hang it all, she missed _winter_. Bracing winds and brutal snowstorms were infinitely preferable to this desolate landscape that baked by day and froze by night. Every hour, she felt gritty and unwashed, soaked in her own sweat from the moment she rose in the morning. Her only consolation was that she was not the only one suffering. Iron Bull's gray skin was burned almost black by the end of each day, the great Qunari practically having to bathe in elfroot lotion each night. Blackwall had been forced to adjust to leather armor, his metal plates proved utterly unsuitable within just a few hours of their arrival in the Approach. Varric was just miserable, wilting in the relentless sunshine, shivering in the chill of the night. They were all sweaty and unwashed, and the fragrance around their campfire each evening was becoming nauseatingly ripe, with no sign of reprieve in the near future.

Yet, despite the distractions of Venatori, darkspawn, and an Orlesian scholar who had walked them straight into yet another encounter with a High Dragon, they made good time through the Approach, arriving at the Tevinter ritual tower almost three weeks to the day after leaving Halamshiral. Stroud was waiting for them, alone but for Marian Hawke, who looked about as happy as Amelia felt.

"I'm glad you made it, Inquisitor," Stroud greeted her, his every muscle tense. "My fellows are scouting other sites in the desert, but there are a handful of Wardens here."

"Just a handful?" Amelia asked.

"They're still trickling in from across Orlais," Hawke told her. "We've seen Ferelden Wardens, as well. The Calling has them all scared."

"Where _are_ they?" Amelia needed to know. "We've seen no Wardens at all, not even in the nest of darkspawn we cleared out on the other side of that sulfur field."

"The others of our party are investigating that," Stroud assured her. "I fear they have already started the ritual here. It is simply a blessing in disguise that so few have been gathered."

"Inquisitor, be careful," Hawke warned. "I'd wager they're using blood magic up there. You can smell it ... or see the corpses."

Amelia swallowed. Blood magic was rather high on the list of things that scared her, always aware of the line she walked as a mage. That fear was worse now she knew the source of Cullen's nightmares. She never wanted to expose him to such a thing again. "Then we need to stop the ritual," she said, adjusting her sweaty grasp on her staff.

Hawke nodded grimly. "You take point," she told Stroud. "I'll guard your backs."

Together, they moved into the tower. Stroud took the lead; it didn't surprise Amelia that Bull and Blackwall ushered her to the back with Varric and Hawke, trusting to the dwarf and the Champion to keep their Inquisitor safe. The tower was not what she had expected - there was no interior to explore. The oppressive Tevinter architecture was open to the sky, and unlike the shrine of Dumat, all the Old Gods were represented in the looming grotesques that lined the wide steps up to the ritual platform itself. But it wasn't the malevolent faces of Dumat and his fellows that wound her stomach into sickening knots. She could feel the magic in the air; worse, she could smell the blood. Hawke was right.

Together, their group crept up the steps, aware of the demonic presence ahead as they listened to the voices above them.

"Warden-Commander Clarel's orders were clear." That was a Tevinter voice - male and assured, and perhaps even a little gloating.

"This is wrong!" another voice objected - Ferelden, male, and _very_ scared.

"Remember your oath," the Tevinter said, the purpose in his tone horrifying to hear. "In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death -" Amelia heard the sound of a blade cutting through flesh, the death rattle of a man's life stolen from him. "- sacrifice. Good. Now bind it, just as I showed you."

As one, Amelia and Hawke broke into a sprint, leaving Varric behind, reaching the top of the steps in tandem with Stroud, only to come upon a terrible scene. Six Warden warriors lay dead, their bodies discarded like so much rubbish; six Warden mages stood by, blood staining their hands; six demons lurked with them, bound by blood magic and human sacrifice to serve. And in their midst, a Tevinter mage, who turned to greet them with an offensive smile.

"Inquisitor." He bowed mockingly, pale eyes flickering to her marked hand. "What an unexpected pleasure. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service."

"Dorian will be heartbroken to have missed reuniting with a former classmate," Amelia responded with biting sarcasm. Erimond had been on the list of possible Venatori her friend had put together - arrogant, too confident by half, and always on the look out for the next power boost.

"Devastated, I'm sure," Erimond responded in kind, his mouth twisted into a moue of distaste for the countryman who had clearly been telling her all kinds of accurate information.

Stroud growled with anger. "You are no Warden," he spat.

"But you _are_." Erimond sighed, shaking his head. "The one Clarel let slip. And you found the Inquisitor and came to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?"

"Wait!" Hawke pushed forward, addressing the Warden mages directly. "Wardens, this man is lying to you. He serves an ancient Tevinter magister who wants to unleash a Blight."

There was no reaction from the Wardens. Just the mention of a Blight usually made Wardens reach for their weapons, yet these six mages just stood there, seemingly concerned by their close proximity to the demons beside them. And suddenly Amelia _knew_ the purpose of this ritual.

"Hawke, _look_ at them," she urged her friend, tense and ready for the fight they could not avoid. "He's stolen their minds."

"And I was so hoping I could give you a demonstration," the Tevinter mocked. "But they did this to themselves. You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked _everywhere_ for help."

"They didn't come to the Inquisition," Amelia pointed out, but it was Stroud who answered her.

"The Inquisition was too new to be considered of much use," the Warden told her regretfully. "But I never thought Clarel would look to Tevinter."

"Yet she did," Erimond told him. "And since it was _my_ master who put the Calling into their little heads, we in the Venatori were prepared. I went to Clarel, full of _sympathy_ , and together we came up with a plan. Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake."

"Corypheus' demon army marching across Thedas," Amelia breathed. She didn't need to imagine it - she had _seen_ it, almost a full year ago, in the false future she had visited with Dorian.

"Sounds familiar," Varric commented from behind her.

"And now you know how it begins," the Tevinter mocked their horror. "Sadly for the Wardens, the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect. They're now my master's slaves."

"You bastard," Hawke hissed angrily. "You used their fear against them."

"This is barely a handful of the mages in the Order," Stroud said then, aghast at how far his fellows had been prepared to go. "The others will not go along with this willingly."

"You're wrong there." Erimond chuckled, the sound painfully inappropriate uttered over the bodies of Wardens who had died believing they were doing the right thing. "This was ... a test. Once the rest of the Wardens have gathered, the mages will complete the ritual, and our army will conquer Thedas."

"Do you really _want_ to see the world fall to a Blight?" Amelia demanded, unnerved by the silent attention of the Warden mages and their bound demons. "What do _you_ get out of this?"

The Tevinter scoffed at her question. "The Elder One commands the Blight," he declared, clearly already feeling secure in his triumph. "He is not commanded _by_ it, like the mindless darkspawn. The Blight is not unstoppable, or uncontrollable. It is simply a tool."

Amelia heard Hawke scoff in return, but Varric beat both of them to the obvious response. " _Somebody's_ certainly a tool."

"As for me," Erimond continued, ignoring the dwarf's comment. "While the Elder One rules from the Golden City, we - the Venatori - will be his god-kings here in the world."

"Interesting you should say that," Amelia countered. "Your Elder One promised exactly the same thing to Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons. I'm sure you've heard by now how that turned out for her."

"She was a fool to think she could ever stand as an equal to the Venatori," Erimond insisted airily. "The death of one woman, Empress or not, hardly compares to the corruption of the Grey Wardens."

"But the Venatori have nothing to do with this," Amelia pointed out. He was too confident; what did he have planned? "Corypheus himself influenced the Wardens, forced them onto this path."

"Ha! _Forced_ them?" Erimond's laughter scratched at her taut nerves. "No. Everything you see here? The blood sacrifices to bind the demons? The Wardens did it of their own free will. Fear is a very good motivator, and they are _very_ afraid."

Behind her, Amelia heard Blackwall's anger erupt. "That's a lie!" her friend snapped; she could only imagine how he felt seeing all this before him. "The Grey Wardens are heroes - they would _never_ do this willingly!"

"The Grey Wardens will do _anything_ to stop the Blights," the Tevinter scorned him. "You should have seen Clarel agonize over the decision. Burdens of command, I suppose."

"Why would Clarel risk using demons?" Hawke demanded. "She's a mage herself; she knows the dangers better than most."

"What a foolish question." Their adversary seemed to be tiring of his opportunity to gloat. "Demons need no food, no rest, no healing. Once bound, they will never retreat, never question orders - the perfect army, now bound to my master."

Amelia straightened her shoulders, readying herself for a fight. "Release the Wardens from the binding and surrender," she ordered him, her voice bleak. "I won't ask twice."

"No," Erimond agreed conversationally. "You won't."

He raised his hand toward her, and Amelia felt a horribly familiar tug from the Anchor on her palm. It resisted for just a moment, erupting into a sparking frenzy of undeniable agony that ripped up her arm as the mark flared with forced Fade light. She cried out, gripping her wrist as the pain drove her to her knees, her entire being focused on the devastating sensation of the mark trying to resist being torn from her very soul as the mage continued to speak over her torment.

"The Elder One showed me how to deal with you, in the event you were foolish enough to intervene again," he said, his tone smug with victory as her companions closed around her, as Varric reached out to touch her back. "That mark you bear? The Anchor that lets you pass safely through the Veil? You stole that from my master. He's been forced to seek other ways to access the Fade."

"Duchess?"

Amelia growled through the pain. "I'm all right, Varric," she promised her friend. "Just be ready."

She barely heard him passing her warning on to the others, fighting through the agony that had engulfed her arm and hand to bring her will to bear. _This_ was why she had been studying Rift Magic, knowing that eventually Corypheus would try to kill her with the Anchor again. It was hers now, an indelible part of her, and she had learned how to use it. Forcing herself to ignore the pain, she sent her awareness searching for what had to be there. She had learned the Anchor well over the last year or so; this pain related to a connection of some sort - an unwelcome connection, for the pain was magnified a hundred-fold. _There_. That was where the mage's power had touched her.

"When I bring him your head," Erimond was crowing, "his gratitude will be -" He broke off suddenly, thrown back as Amelia forced his touch from the Anchor, gifting him with just a taste of the pain he had inflicted on her, pain that made him scream like the coward he was. He scrambled back as she rose onto her feet. "Kill them!" his shrill voice demanded in terror. "Kill them all!"

The mindless Wardens and their bound demons turned to strike, but Amelia and her people were ready for them. She raised the Anchor, letting _it_ retaliate for the attempt to destroy its host. A rift opened above the attackers, tendrils of Fade energy reaching to drag the demons back beyond the Veil, where they could do no harm to the world of the living. Without their bound allies, the Warden mages were no match for the enemy they faced - an enemy that was angry and more than motivated enough to shrug off underpowered spells. It was just as well, really; even as she caught sight of Erimond's escape, Amelia collapsed onto her knees, her muscles seizing with just the echo of the pain so recently endured.

"You were right," Stroud said in disgust, shaking the blood from his sword. "Through their ritual, the mages are slaves to Corypheus."

"And the Warden warriors?" Hawke asked in an acid tone. Her gray eyes flicked down to the corpses at their feet. "Oh, of course. It's not _real_ blood magic until someone gets sacrificed."

Eased back onto her feet with Blackwall's help, Amelia scowled. They might have won this round, but this wasn't a victory. "Who looks at this and thinks it's a good idea?" she asked in a hopeless voice.

"The fearful and the foolish," Hawke said simply. She turned, concern clouding her expression as she considered the Inquisitor. "Amelia, are you all right?"

"I just need to rest, that's all," Amelia assured the Champion. "That's the second time someone's tried to kill me with my own hand. It wasn't any more pleasant this time around."

"Kill you?" Hawke sounded shocked. "Is the pain _that_ bad?"

"Worse, probably," Amelia told her wearily. "But the Anchor always hurts. I've grown used to it. I don't think they'll be trying that again, though. I threw a fair amount of the pain straight back at our blood mage friend there."

"You need to rest," Blackwall told her, his tone brooking no argument. "You're barely on your feet as it is."

"We can track back to Griffon Wing Keep," Bull suggested. "Safest place to rest up before we go looking for the Wardens."

"I believe I know where they are," Stroud offered them, his voice sombre. "The direction Erimond fled ... there's an abandoned Warden fortress that way. Adamant."

"Then that's where we'll go," Amelia began, but to everyone's surprise, it was Varric who headed that off.

"You're not going anywhere, Duchess," the dwarf said firmly. "We did what we came to do. Let our Wardens find the others, and you can send a message to Skyhold when we know more."

"He's right," Hawke said, overriding the objection that rose on the tip of Amelia's tongue. "Stroud and I can scout out Adamant, and confirm that the other Wardens are there. We'll meet you back at the Keep. You've faced enough for one day."

Had anyone else said that, Amelia might have argued. But this was Hawke, a woman who had been at the forefront herself, who knew that one person could not do it all and survive. Accepting the advice, she sagged against Blackwall gratefully. "All right," she conceded. "If you're not back by sunset, we'll come for you."

That decided, Hawke and Stroud were quick to get going, but Amelia refused to leave the tower before one more task was completed. Despite their ignoble deaths, the Wardens were still heroes; she refused to leave their bodies to rot beside the remains of Tevinter victims from centuries before. To her surprise, there was no argument from her companions. Blackwall set her down in the shade to rest, ordering her not to move, and he, Varric, and Iron Bull got to work building a pyre from the bleached wood that littered the sands. They wouldn't even let her light it, concerned by how weary she was after her encounter with Erimond. Varric intoned the chant for the departed over the pyre, and they each stood for some time in quiet contemplation of what this all meant.

Though it pained her to admit it, the circumstances all pointed toward the inevitability of an assault on the Grey Wardens, a war to save them from themselves. That was not a prospect that filled Amelia with hope. The Wardens were legendary fighters; they would fight all the harder with the Calling in their hearts, and with demons to bolster them ... Her mind shuddered back from the thought of those casualties. Yet it could not be helped. Corypheus could _not_ be permitted to corrupt the Wardens so thoroughly.

At Griffon Wing Keep, she was examined by healers and finally allowed to rest, but the sound of raised voices roused her from sleep before the sun dipped below the horizon. She groaned, every part of her aching, dragging herself up from her bedroll to look out through the flap of her tent. Hawke and Stroud were no more than ten feet away, snarling at each other.

"The Wardens are wrong, Hawke, but they have their reasons," Stroud was saying, in deep tones of exasperation.

" _All_ blood mages do," Hawke countered hotly. "Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions ... and it _never_ matters in the end. In the end, you are always alone with your decisions."

"They are not alone," Stroud argued as forcefully as he dared. "That Tevinter has used their fear against them -"

"Fear is no reason to consort with demons!" the Champion shouted, throwing up her hands. "Kirkwall was rife with fear and blood magic, and what did that accomplish?"

"This is _not_ Kirkwall!" the Warden snapped back at her. "This is the fate of the world!"

"A world saved by blood magic is not a world _I_ want to be a part of!"

"That's _enough_ , both of you," Amelia interjected, stepping painfully out of her tent. "We don't have so many friends that we can afford to alienate each other through differing opinions."

"Blood magic is _wrong_ ," Hawke insisted. "My own mother lost her life to blood magic!"

"Yes, it is wrong," Amelia agreed, " _but_ ... Grey Wardens use whatever means necessary to end a Blight. They believe they are all dying out. In their place, I would probably have made the same decision."

"But you _know_ Corypheus is behind this!" Hawke protested.

"And _they_ don't," Amelia reminded her forcefully. "I don't agree with their decision, of course I don't. But I _do_ understand it. Taking out your anger on a friend is not going to help the situation." As Hawke subsided, bowing to the logic in her argument, Amelia turned her gaze onto Stroud. "Neither is trying to force others to see the Wardens' argument," she told him. "Blood magic evokes visceral reactions in everyone. All you are doing is inviting angry words and tempers."

She watched them both absorb her words, glad she still had their ear when it came to this. There was an awkward exchange of glances, muttered apologies, and Stroud moved away to join his fellow loyal Grey Wardens at their camp fire. Hawke scowled after him, clearly angry he couldn't or _wouldn't_ see this from her perspective, but she let him go, turning back to Amelia.

"You look marginally better than you did earlier," she commented, gesturing for the Inquisitor to sit. "Whatever Erimond did, it took a lot out of you."

Amelia sighed softly. Her hand still throbbed, sending ripples of that pain up along her arm every now and then, but it was a vast improvement on how she had felt in the immediate aftermath. "I'll be fine in the morning," she promised, with a certain amount of feigned confidence. "Did you find anything?"

"We tracked that Venatori mage back to Adamant Fortress." Hawke nodded as she, too, sat down by the fire, meeting Varric's gaze with wry humor. "Stroud estimates that around a third of the Wardens haven't yet reached them."

"We should try to slow them up, if we can," Amelia mused thoughtfully. "It'll take time for Cullen to get our forces here."

"So we're going up against the Wardens," Varric said, his voice heavy. "That's just great."

"I don't see that we have much choice," Amelia admitted, not exactly thrilled with the idea herself. "We _have_ to stop them before they all complete the ritual, and with Erimond whispering in her ear, Clarel isn't even going to know I want to talk to her."

"So we have to get you to her," Hawke said firmly. "The Wardens won't make that easy."

"We?" Amelia asked in surprise.

Hawke flashed her a bright grin. "You didn't think I was going to let you have all the fun, did you?"

"Only you would call this _fun_ ," Varric chuckled, sobering as he looked over at his best friend. "Thanks for coming."

"You did well, Varric," Hawke told him with a fond smile for her friend. "The Inquisitor is ... just who we need."

"Oh, it's been great," the dwarf drawled sarcastically. "Murderous Wardens, archdemon attacks, plenty of blood mages and crazy templars. Just like home."

Hawke chuckled lightly. "All the same, you're where you need to be," she pointed out mildly. "I know how much you hated leaving Kirkwall."

"This is the ass end of Thedas," Varric declared. "You know they eat _snails_ here?"

"And grilled drake in deathroot sauce," Amelia added, laughing at his grimace.

"Don't remind me," he groaned, shuddering just at the thought of that particular local dish. "Still, I think ... I _need_ to finish this out. If it weren't for me and Bartrand, none of this would have happened." He sighed, shaking his head. "So much for changing our lives."

"That's what happens when you try to change things," Hawke told him regretfully. "Things change. You can't always control how."

"Well, getting rich without the side order of crazy doesn't seem too much to ask," Varric grumped, but Amelia could see how much Hawke's mere presence was a comfort to him. What a gift, to have a friendship like that.

She excused herself, not wanting to intrude on the best friends' conversation. Besides, there was something she needed to do, sooner rather than later. The ravens watched from their cages as she wrote carefully on the little message slip, trying to cram as much in there as she possibly could. This situation was beyond her. She needed help.

_C,L,J - assault necessary on Adamant Fortress ASAP. Agents required to prevent remaining Wardens' arrival. Will meet army in Hissing Wastes and clear Venatori presence. Bring friends. Come soon. - A_


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay - enjoy this one, because the next one is giving me fits!

Amelia could hear the Inquisition army camp long before it came into view. The moment she and her party came into sight of them, however, the cheering started, and it only grew in volume as they passed the perimeter lines and entered the camp proper. It wasn't as though she'd _planned_ to meet the army with yet another dragon kill under her belt, but it seemed as though it was good for morale. Right now, morale was vitally important. They'd be taking on the Grey Wardens in a matter of days.

Cullen was waiting for her as she reached the heart of the camp, and to her surprise, Leliana was with him. They must have left Josephine in Skyhold to hold the fort, deeming that both spymaster and commander were necessary for the assault ahead.

" _Someone_ is turning into quite the dragon hunter," Leliana teased as she joined them, making Amelia laugh at the sheer mischief on the redhead's face.

" _Another_ dragon, Ame?" Cullen asked in exasperated tones. "How many is that now, eight?"

"Ten," she informed her husband with not undue pride. "At least I know what I'm doing with them now. I even stayed conscious for the last two."

"I'm delighted for you," he drawled with fond sarcasm. "However will you fill your days when you run out of dragons to terrify me with?"

"I thought I'd breed them so our children can discover the joy of dragon-baiting for themselves," she told him impishly. She had the distinct pleasure of watching her husband's mind come to a juddering halt, not only at the prospect of children in their future, but also at the thought of his wife teaching them to hunt dragons.

He struggled for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed as he absorbed her teasing smile. "No," he said finally, rolling his eyes as both Leliana and his wife erupted into giggles at his response. "Can we get to work?"

"All right," Amelia conceded, moving with them to the makeshift table they had set up to confer over. "Fill me in."

"We're about fifteen miles from the fortress itself," Cullen said, sliding effortlessly into his role as commander. "Our forces could be at the gates within two days. I would recommend a night assault. This heat saps our soldiers' strength, but it will have no effect on any demons they have already bound."

"Have we had any sign of the Wardens themselves?" Amelia asked, glancing over at Leliana.

The spymaster shook her head. "Apart from those we have prevented from joining their fellow, nothing," she said confidently. "They have pulled back within their walls. It is unlikely that they are unaware of our presence, however."

"I see." Amelia frowned. "It's also likely that they have accelerated their schedule."

"Indeed," Leliana agreed. "Our only true advantage lies in the fact that Warden mages are relatively few. No more than fifty in a garrison of over four hundred."

"Four hundred?" Amelia straightened, one hand wiping the sweat from her brow. "I had no idea there were so many Grey Wardens in Orlais."

"We still outnumber them," Cullen assured her, "but with demons to bolster their ranks, this is not a battle I can predict with any certainty."

"There is another complication," Leliana wanred. "Our siege equipment and sappers have come from Jader, where the peace talks between Orlais and Ferelden are taking place. The Ferelden delegation has sent a company to assist ... under the command of King Alistair."

Amelia groaned, dropping her head forward. "The _Grey Warden_ King Alistair," she sighed unhappily, raising her head. "Didn't _anyone_ tell him that's a bad idea?"

"It gets worse," Cullen told her in a dark tone. "The Orlesian delegation sent word back to Halamshiral. Grand Duke Gaspard arrived this morning with a company of chevaliers."

"Oh, for ..." She bit down on the words that wanted to be expressed. "They hate each other. At least tell me they're on opposite sides of the camp."

"For now, yes." Cullen nodded; he was as wary of letting those two mix as she was. "But they have both demanded a place at the war council."

"And we cannot allow either of them into the thick of the fighting," Leliana added soberly. "They are both necessary to the continued stability of southern Thedas."

"Well, Gaspard knows not to cross me, at least," Amelia said, exasperated already. "Will King Alistair do what he's told, Leliana?"

"I ... cannot say," the redhead admitted reluctantly. "He has always been impulsive, and his loyalty to the Grey Wardens cannot be overestimated. Add to that the boredom of ruling a country when he would rather be wielding a sword in battle, and he has become difficult to predict."

"Does he understand what we're doing here?" Amelia asked her, worried that the Ferelden king might not be here to assist _them_.

"He has been informed, but I do not think he believes the Wardens capable of such a dark course of action," Leliana told her warily. "And as yet, we have no proof to show him."

"Just my word and the word of another Grey Warden." Amelia groaned again, deep in her throat. "Why is _nothing_ ever simple?" she asked, though she was hardly expecting an answer. "When is the war council set for?"

"Tomorrow evening," Cullen told her. "We expect to be within range to attack by noon of the next day."

"Well then, we'd better hope I come up with something by tomorrow evening, hadn't we?" she said, trying to sound hopeful. It hadn't even occurred to her that a problem like this would arise. She needed Josephine to tell her what to do, but the ambassador was miles away. She was on her own for this one.

The addition of another one hundred men had caused a little consternation among the quartermasters, but the addition of ten officers - one a king, and another a grand duke - necessitated a certain amount of doubling up among the Inquisition officers to ensure both Alistair and Gaspard had the privacy of their own tents. What this meant, in practical terms, was that Amelia ended up sharing her tent that night with Cullen, Leliana, and Marian Hawke. Ordinarily, this would have resulted in Cullen attempting to sleep outside, but the freezing desert and the circumstances combined to keep him huddled against her back to sleep. To their credit, neither Leliana or Hawke even hinted at their awareness of his nightmares, both out of the tent before the married couple roused.

One good thing about the two powerful men who had joined them was their military background. Neither Gaspard nor Alistair insisted on riding with the Inquisitor, preferring to stay with their own companies. They took orders well, not offering arguments when the runners brought the order to take shelter and rest during the hottest part of the day, or when the order to make camp came as Adamant rose above the haze. The reprieve of being allowed a day to think over her predicament, despite the discomfort of the march, had given Amelia time to run her immediate problem through her mind and come up with a possible solution. Now she just had to come up with the right way of presenting it, _before_ the Ferelden and Orlesian delegations started bringing up old grievances. A brief word with Varric gave her an idea, though.

She called the war council before the evening meal was served, already waiting at the table with Cullen and Leliana before the King and Grand Duke arrived. Both were armored, but neither one was permitted to enter her presence armed. Gaspard, in particular, took issue with that.

"How dare you disarm _me_ when this commoner still bears his sword?" he demanded, gesturing dismissively toward Cullen.

"Careful, Gaspard," Alistair warned mildly. "That _commoner_ is a Knight of Ferelden."

The Grand Duke scoffed derisively. "A dog-knight."

" _Commander_ of the Inquisition forces," Amelia informed both of them in icy tones. "Your grace, do we have to revisit the Grand Ball?"

Gaspard's expression closed down at the reminder that she knew certain things about him that he definitely didn't want Ferelden to know. Alistair was grinning at his discomfort, but that grin didn't last long once Amelia turned her attention to him.

"Your majesty, _why_ are you here?" she demanded pointedly.

Alistair's mouth worked silently for a moment. "Well, I ... if the Inquisition is moving against the Grey Wardens, I feel I should be here, as a Grey Warden myself," he offered a little weakly.

"And _there_ is my problem," she said in a stern voice. "Your majesty, your presence here complicates matters. Can I trust you?"

The king stared at her, shocked to be called out so bluntly. "Inquisitor, I can assure you -"

"Let me put it another way," she said, talking over him. "Do I have the King of Ferelden at my back, or a Grey Warden of unknown allegiance?"

"I am the King of Ferelden," he answered sharply. "But I cannot deny my oath to the Grey Wardens. You _are_ marching on a Warden fortress, Inquisitor."

"Not with the intention of wiping out the Grey Wardens," she told him. "I need to _talk_ to Warden-Commander Clarel, but she is under the influence of a Tevinter mage and has withdrawn behind those walls. We have proof that the Warden mages are being subverted into nothing more than mindless slaves for Corypheus."

"So what _do_ you intend to do with your army?" Alistair asked her, as blunt and to the point as she was.

"The Wardens have given us no choice," Amelia said firmly. " _Our_ army is going to punch a hole into the fortress so that I can reach the Warden-Commander before she sacrifices every warrior under her command in this foolish endeavor. Wardens _will_ die, your majesty, but they are already dying, tricked into giving their blood for Corypheus."

"If you truly intend to save those you can ..." Alistair's frown was thoughtful.

"The Inquisitor does not kill where she can compromise," Leliana told him quietly. "You were witness to that in Redcliffe. Her mercy to the templars is well known. Her actions at Halamshiral are further proof."

"That is true," Gaspard said unexpectedly. "She could have had me executed with ease, yet still I live, and Orlais will not suffer for her mercy."

"And she has already saved Grey Wardens, your majesty," Cullen added. "Those who were brave enough to reject the Warden-Commander's solution have already found sanctuary with the Inquisition, on her orders."

"Stroud is the only Warden I have seen in your ranks," the king pointed out.

"We didn't think it right to ask them to attack their fellows," Amelia told him. "Grey Wardens - _all_ Grey Wardens - are vulnerable to Corypheus and his false Calling. Unfortunately, that includes you, your majesty."

"Oh." Alistair shuffled uncomfortably. "You may have a point there."

"I need you both to answer one very simple question," she said then, including Gaspard in her gaze. "By joining this march, you have both plainly stated that you agree with the Inquisition's goal. Now I ask you this ... for the duration of this campaign, will you acknowledge the Inquisition's authority and obey any orders you are given?"

"Provided you do not order us to quit the field, I and my men are at your disposal, Inquisitor," King Alistair answered immediately and, rather than be outdone, Gaspard added his agreement, too.

"Good. Then I am placing responsibility for both your lives onto each other." Amelia paused to allow time for the inevitable protests to be aired, but ignored them all. "This is _war_ , gentlemen. We don't have the luxury of clinging to past hurts and casual xenophobia. Gaspard, you are personally responsible for King Alistair's life. Alistair, _you_ are personally responsible for Grand Duke Gaspard's life. If either one of you falls, the other's country will answer for it. Am I quite clear?"

After a moment's struggle, Gaspard gave in gracefully. "As you wish, my lady."

King Alistair scowled, but his national pride would not allow him to back out now the Orlesian had agreed. "As you command, Inquisitor."

"You'll both be taking your orders from Knight-Commander Barris," she informed them, not prepared to debate it. "He'll be leading the third wave onto the battlements. You will be facing mages and demons certainly, and most likely the Warden warriors as well. Prepare accordingly."

It was not what either man had expected from a war council, but they could hardly argue the point now they had placed themselves under her command. Her words were a dismissal, and both had enough military experience to know that, without having it pointed out to them. As they marched away, side by side but not acknowledging each other, Amelia sagged against the table.

"I am _never_ going to get used to scolding powerful people," she complained.

"That was very well handled, Inquisitor," Leliana praised her. "Josephine would be proud. _Will_ be proud, when the news reaches her."

Cullen was nodding in agreement, his hand resting gently on his wife's back. "That was near genius, Ame," he added his appreciation to the spymaster's. "However did you think of it?"

"I didn't," she admitted with a low laugh. "It was Varric's idea. Make them each other's problem, and they'll stop bothering us was his theory."

"A sound one," Cullen acknowledge, a little surprised by the dwarf's political acumen. "You may have done more for peace between Orlais and Ferelden with one order, than all the ambassadors in Thedas."

"Or we could end this with two inflammatory deaths," Leliana pointed out, puncturing the mood somewhat. Still, it was her job to expect the worst.

"True," Amelia conceded. "I prefer Cullen's perspective, though."

"As do we all," the redhead agreed. "The next day and night promise to be trying for us all."

"To work, then." Cullen drew their attention back to the map on the table. "We made good time today, better than I had expected. We can begin drawing siege lines once noon is past tomorrow, with a view to attacking at dusk. The delay is regrettable, but necessary if we are to throw our full strength at Adamant."

"I don't know anything about this place," Amelia admitted reluctantly, glancing up at the dark shadow on the horizon.

"Adamant Fortress has stood against the darkspawn since the time of the Second Blight," Leliana told her. "It was constructed by the dwarves on the edge of the Abyssal Rift, but has been abandoned since the griffons died out."

"Fortunately for us, that means it was built before the age of modern siege equipment," Cullen said with a certain amount of satisfaction. "A good trebuchet will do major damage to those ancient walls."

"More calibrating?" Amelia raised a brow, delighted when her husband actually blushed. "Oh, so _that's_ what you were doing at Haven."

"Anyway ..." Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thanks to our Lady Ambassador, we have sappers from Jader. They've already delivered the trebuchets, and will man them for us."

"That is the good news," Leliana said brightly.

"None of that accounts for the Wardens summoning a giant demon army," Amelia pointed out. The demons were her biggest concern at this point. They really didn't want _every_ Warden mage doing that ritual.

" _That_ is the bad news." Leliana's brightness faded.

Cullen rubbed his neck uncomfortably. "I'm confident the Inquisition forces can breach the gate, but if the Wardens already have their demons ..."

Amelia winced at the implication. "A single wraith can take out five or more ordinary soldiers," she said unhappily. "We already have proof they're raising shades and rage demons. Feasibly, there could be pride and despair demons there by the time we engage with them. That puts our forces at a serious disadvantage."

"There _is_ a way to control the battle, if we move quickly enough," Leliana said, unrolling an ancient parchment on the table. "This is a copy of the original record made at Adamant's construction. There are choke points on the battlements here, here, and here. If we can gain control of them, we can limit the field of battle."

"That's good," Cullen approved as he and Amelia leaned over the blueprint. "We may not be able to defeat them outright, but if we cut off reinforcements, we can carve you a path to Warden-Commander Clarel."

"You should make sure Hawke sees this," Amelia said thoughtfully. It took a moment to realize they were both waiting for her to elaborate. "She's decided to join the first wave onto the battlements. This is becoming a very personal fight for her."

"All the more reason she should not be involved," Cullen pointed out in concern.

"Do _you_ want to tell the Champion of Kirkwall to sit this one out?" his wife asked him archly. "When we're facing blood mages?"

Cullen grimaced, nodding reluctantly. "I see your point," he said with a frown. "What of Warden Stroud?"

Amelia straightened, rubbing her thumb against her marked palm agitatedly. "I've talked it over with him," she said quietly. "He's happy to keep our Wardens out of the fighting, but he insists on accompanying me personally."

"Who else will be at your side?" Leliana asked in a curious tone.

"Varric, for one," Amelia answered. "He wants to be near Hawke, and I see no reason to stop him. Cassandra outright told me she's coming along. As for the third ... it looks like I'm taking Cole."

"Is that entirely safe?" the spymaster questioned warily.

"Possibly not," Amelia admitted. "I'm not happy to place him in such close proximity to demons, but I don't really have a choice. I won't risk the mages so close to blood magic and demons; Blackwall isn't coming for the same reason the other Wardens aren't; Sera is terrified of magic; and Bull will be leading the Chargers on the gate. Besides, Cole's skill-set might prove to be uniquely suitable. If I can get him close enough, he can take care of Erimond for us."

"That is true," Cullen agreed. He reached out absently, enclosing her marked hand in his own to stop her anxious rubbing. "He _is_ uniquely vulnerable, though."

"Another reason to have Varric along," she said, sliding her fingers between his. "He has a connection with Cole that I don't."

"Then we will deploy the others in support roles," her husband promised. "That should keep them from trying to play hero."

"Thank you." She shared a worried smile with him; over the months, the Inquisition had become her family. She did not like sending _anyone_ into danger. "So ..." Her eyes returned to the blueprint in front of her. "Our plan is to lay siege to a legendary fortress filled with demons."

"It'll be hard fought, no way around it," Cullen acknowledged regretfully, squeezing her hand. "But we'll get that gate open for you."

"You know, it is possible some of the Wardens within will be sympathetic to our cause," she mused hopefully. "We may not have to fight them all."

"The warriors may be willing to listen to reason," Leliana nodded. "Though I doubt they will turn against Clarel directly. The mages, however, are slaves to Corypheus. They _will_ fight to the death."

"We've built the siege engines and readied our forces," Cullen added, watching as Amelia studied the blueprints before her. "Give the word, and we march on Adamant."

She was silent for a long moment, her mind filled with the horrors that lay ahead of them. Mages and demons, blood magic, and the innocent men and women already dying for Corypheus' ambition. If there were any other way, she would jump to take it, but Clarel's blind fear had lead them to this. There _was_ no other choice. She sighed, giving her consent with a sharp nod.

"Tomorrow, then," she ordered with a heavy heart. "We attack at dusk."


	27. Chapter 27

The chaos of their assault on Adamant was worse than Amelia could possibly have imagined.

At dusk, Cullen's trebuchets swung into action, flaming projectiles smashing great hunks of ancient masonry from the walls, keeping the defenders busy as the rest of the army moved into position. When the trebuchets fell silent, it was the turn of the soldiers on siege ladders and bearing the battering ram to advance. Amelia caught a glimpse of Hawke atop one of those ladders, the first to breach the Grey Wardens' defenses as a small phalanx of soldiers bearing tower shields enclosed her party in a protective shell. That small space was cramped and dark, yet the sounds of the battle were still all around; the sounds of men screaming as weapons found their mark, of rocks hitting the shields held solid above her head, the roar of the men at the battering ram as they drove it toward the gate. At least once, she felt herself stand on a body part, an arm or leg belonging to one of her own people who had fallen just to get her here. It would be worse inside the fortress, she knew, but she _had_ to get there. The ancient gate stood no chance against the modern equipment deployed against it, and as the brittle iron gave way, the shields around her fell away to allow the Inquisitor and her people to clear the first courtyard of demons and their bound mages. Then the real fighting began.

Hard-pressed, Amelia fought her way onto the battlements with her friends close at hand, joining up with Hawke to secure the three choke-points Leliana had identified, wresting control of the fight from pride and despair demons that might otherwise have killed too many of her people in this assault. What few Wardens they came across who were unwilling to fight took Stroud's word and pulled back, rather than join the fight against their fellows. The deeper into the fortress they got, the stronger the resistance became, and Amelia was glad to have the addition of both Hawke and Stroud at her back. Without them, any number of demons or mages might have taken her life before they ever reached the heart of the fortress. But finally they did burst into the main courtyard where the ritual was taking place. Several mages stood around a pulsing rift, warriors standing by, as above them their Warden-Commander slit the throat of one of their own under the direction of Erimond.

The Tevinter spotted them first, issuing orders in a shrill tone. "Stop them! We must complete the ritual!"

Amelia pushed forward as the warriors turned toward them. "I did not come here to fight you!" she shouted, her eyes fixed on the platform above. "It's done, Clarel. There will be no ritual, and no demon army."

"Then the Blight rises with no Wardens to stop it, and the whole world dies!" Erimond declared, stoking the fear she could see in the eyes all around her. "Is that what you want? And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Hate _me_ for that if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty."

"Masterful performance, Erimond," Amelia snapped back at him. "Top marks."

" _We_ make the sacrifices no one else will," Clarel asserted with a frown. "Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them."

"And then your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus!" Stroud burst out angrily.

They all saw Clarel hesitate. "Corypheus?" she echoed. "But he's dead."

"He is not dead," Amelia informed her. "He planted this Calling in you all. It's false!"

Erimond scowled, seeing his influence over the Warden-Commander failing with every word. "These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel," he urged her fervently. "We've come too far to turn back now."

Clarel paused, indecision clouding her expression. Then her face cleared. "Bring it forth," she ordered the mages around the rift.

They stretched forth their power to widen the rift, offering a glimpse of the truly enormous demon waiting on the other side. Amelia and her party surged forward, desperate to stop this before it went too far, but the Warden warriors pressed in around them, ready to fight to the death to defend their mages and their Warden-Commander.

"Please!" Hawke pleaded with them, no one willing to be the first to strike. "I have seen more than my share of blood magic! It is never worth the cost!"

At Amelia's other side, Stroud snarled in frustration. "I trained half of you!" he protested as the Wardens advanced. "Do not make me kill you to stop this madness!"

"Listen to me!" Amelia turned her imploring gaze onto the warriors who threatened her. "I have no quarrel with the Wardens - I have spared those I could. I _don't_ want to kill you, but you're being used ... and some of you know it, don't you?"

The Warden directly in front of her hesitated, raising his hand to stay his comrades' attack. "The mages who've done the ritual," he said, and his voice was heavy with suspicion and regret. "They're not right. Look at them. They were my friends, but now they're like puppets on a string."

Clarel's voice rang out across the courtyard. "You cannot let fear sway your mind, Warden Chernoff!"

"He's not afraid," Hawke shot back. " _You_ are. You're afraid that you ordered all these brave men and women to die for nothing."

Her words hit home. Amelia saw Clarel shudder at the possibility that Hawke was right, even as Stroud capitalized on that blessed moment of reason.

"I honor your bravery, my brothers and sisters, but this is not the way." He put up his sword, sheathing the blade at his side, and Amelia followed suit, raising her staff from battle-ready to simply upright. Behind them, their small party did the same; this seeming surrender further disconcerting the Warden warriors who faced them. "You have been tricked."

Almost as one, the unbound Wardens turned to look at their Warden-Commander, the leader they had trusted on this dark path. None of them wanted to believe it, and yet the sheer conviction in the voices of the Inquisitor, the Champion, one of their own ... it could not be denied. But she was looking to Erimond, her Tevinter ally, suspicion finally dawning on her face.

"Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges," Clarel suggested, and Amelia felt her tension ease just a little. The woman was frightened, but not out of her wits. "To avoid further bloodshed."

Erimond's false sympathy evaporated as he realized his hold over the Warden-Commander had been broken. "Or perhaps I should bring in a more reliable ally," he suggested in turn. He raised his own staff, striking the stones three times. "My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor," he called down as an unpleasantly familiar shriek rent the air. "He sent me this to welcome you!"

From over the battlements swooped Corypheus' pet archdemon, red lyrium eyes burning with malevolent intent. Amelia stared up at it as the Wardens scattered around her, as her friends dove for cover, standing her ground just as she had done in Haven. But this was not just any dragon, and she was not stalling to save lives this time. There was a purpose to the dragon's circling. It was here for _her_ , and the moment it saw her, that purpose became blindingly clear.

"Duchess! _Move!"_

But she couldn't move, terror rooting her to the spot as the dragon circled once again, flame decorating the sky as it turned to plunge toward her. She saw the mouth open as it bore down on her, saw the flame ignite ... and felt two hundred pounds of Champion hit her hard, knocking her out of the dragon's path and behind a sturdy stone statue of a griffon. Hawke pinned her in place as the flames streamed past on either side of them. Amelia shuddered, trying to shake off the terror that had frozen her limbs as Hawke met her gaze fiercely.

"You all right?" the Champion demanded forcefully. "Don't get scared, Inquisitor. Get angry!"

Amelia swallowed, forcing her terror aside with no little difficulty. "Angry," she repeated, slowly gathering her wits together. Fear would not serve her here, Hawke was right. She _should_ be angry; angry that Corypheus had pinpointed her fear, angry that Erimond had exploited it. "Angry, I can do."

"Good." Hawke nodded, unsheathing the two-handed sword at her back. "Let's give that thing something to _really_ scream about!"

Champion and Inquisitor charged out of cover together, the only people moving in the courtyard. This time, Amelia did not freeze in fear; she threw ice into the gaping maw that flamed overhead, dousing that flame as it screamed down at her. Another scream erupted from the chilled mouth as Hawke's blade cut deep into its tail, and suddenly the courtyard was alive with movement. Mages turned their demons loose to attack the Inquisition, only to find the Warden warriors raising arms against them. With the dragon circling, with demons snarling and spells firing, Amelia almost missed seeing Erimond flee, pursued by Clarel.

"Cassandra!" she yelled above the chaos all around them, pointing her staff. "That way!"

The Seeker nodded, dispatching the demon before her to charge after the Inquisitor, Cole close on her heels. Hawke and Varric were quick to join them, falling in with Stroud as Amelia lead the way from the courtyard, sprinting through incidental battles with demons, trying to stay one step ahead of the dragon while endeavoring to close the distance between themselves and Erimond. A few hairy encounters slowed them up, but finally they rounded the bulk of the tower to find Clarel had cornered the Tevinter mage on the parapet overlooking the Abyssal Rift.

"You!" the Warden-Commander was shouting. "You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!"

Her spell caught Erimond by surprise, but he was laughing as he rose onto his knee. "You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch," he taunted her. "All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes, and you couldn't _wait_ to get your hands bloody!" He cried out in pain as she hit him with another blast of raw power, curling in on himself even as he rasped. "You ... could have served ... a new ... god ..."

"I will _never_ serve the Blight!" Clarel snarled. Her next spell sent him sliding back toward the tower as the dragon swooped down.

Amelia shouted a warning too late - the dragon caught the Warden-Commander in its mouth, biting down hard as it shook her form violently. Clarel's blood sprayed the horrified watchers as her body was hurled to the far end of the parapet. Heedless of the danger, Amelia bolted forward, unwilling to just stand by and watch as a formerly good woman was killed so brutally. A sweep of the dragon's tail knocked her to one side, pinning her briefly underneath Stroud as the others were knocked to the other side of the jutting parapet, no one in any position to help the fallen woman.

_"In war ... victory ..."_

"She's alive!" Amelia gasped, scrambling onto her feet as the dragon loomed over Clarel's bloodied, broken body.

_"... in peace ... vigilance ..."_

"Wait!" Stroud caught her arm as she started forward, forcing her to a halt. "What is she doing?"

Amelia squinted through the dragon's legs, watching as Clarel's broken hands formed a complex sigil that was all too familiar. "Oh, no ..."

_"... in death ..."_

"Get _back!_ " Amelia screamed, trying to drag Stroud away. "She's -"

The explosion was deafening. In her last moments, Clarel released every vestige of magical energy in her dying body in a shockwave that caught the dragon full in the face. It reared back, its great bulk shattering the stone railings that lined the parapet, sending huge chunks of masonry dropping into the deep abyss that bordered the fortress. The dragon slammed down into the stonework, scrabbling for purchase as the sturdy construction came apart beneath it.

"Run!" Hawke yelled, urging them to make a break for the tower, even as the stone beneath them gave way.

Amelia tripped and stumbled, struggling to make headway as the ground beneath her feet sank and juddered. Stroud was close by her side, refusing to leave her, the dragon taking flight behind them. She paused just a moment too long in her rush, hearing Cassandra scream her name as the world shifted, sending her into free fall with her friends not far behind her. All she could hear was the thunder of her heartbeat and the rush of air in her ears; all she could see was the endless chasm beneath her. All she could think was how stupid she'd been ... how Cullen would grieve her loss. And the Anchor on her hand flared, green flames erupting below her. She passed through the flames without harm ... and the world around her changed.

The abyss was gone, replaced with the pseudo-rock formation and unmoving clouds of the Fade. The sounds of the fall were suddenly silenced, their collective voices trying out in terror the only sound inflicted on their ears as the fall was reversed, all of them accelerating toward an unexpectedly solid surface. Amelia whimpered, closing her eyes ... and the impact never came.

"What in the name of ..." Varric's wonder broke through her fright.

She opened her eyes, and there was the surface just above - or below - her head. Suspended there, she glanced around, unsurprised to find her friends floating in much the same way.

"This is ... odd," Cassandra said, her voice dark with anger to cover her fear. "What is this?"

"Where are we?" Stroud asked, his voice rough with shock.

Rather than answer, Amelia turned her eyes back to the rock surface so close. She reached out to brush a fingertip against it ... and gravity asserted itself. With an abruptness that shocked the breath from her body, she crashed onto the rock heavily, blinking as her personal horizon reasserted itself as well. Around her, she heard her friends land too, their pained groaned joining hers as they each shook off the disconcerting sensation.

"We were falling," Hawke groaned, pushing herself onto one knee. "Is this ... are we dead?"

"No ... no. Nonononononono ..."

Amelia rolled onto her knees, seeking out the owner of that voice - Cole. The strange spirit boy was crouched nearby, his pale eyes wide as his hands flexed and clenched, panic pouring off him.

"This is the Fade, but I'm stuck," he whimpered, terror bleeding through his voice. "I can't ... why can't I ...? This place is wrong. I made myself forget when I made myself real, but I know it wasn't like this."

"It's not how I remember the Fade, either," Hawke offered, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Perhaps it's because we're here physically, instead of just dreaming." Her head turned, meeting Amelia's eyes. "The stories say you walked out of the Fade at Haven. Was it like this?"

"I don't know." It was frustrating just to say that; she couldn't imagine how frustrating it was to _hear_ her say it. "I still can't remember what happened the last time I did this."

"What _do_ you remember?" Cassandra asked then, on edge in the eerie half-light.

Amelia shook her head, at a loss as to how to answer. "I ... was running," she said helplessly, knowing this wouldn't help. "There was a woman, I think, but I don't remember any details. I don't _remember_ anything."

"Well, whatever happened at Haven, we can't assume we're safe now," Hawke pointed out. "That huge demon was right on the other side of the rift Erimond was using, and there could be others."

"In our world, the rift the demons came through was nearby, in the main courtyard," Stroud said thoughtfully. "Can we escape the same way?"

"Well, it beats waiting around for demons to find us, right?" Amelia turned, scanning their unearthly surrounding. The sky was gray-green, unremarkable but for a swirling bright vortex in the distance. "There." She pointed toward it, the mark on her hand crackling with the same shade of Fade-light for a brief moment. "Let's go."

Her eyes fell on Cole once more, moving to gently urge the boy up onto his feet. He stumbled as he rose, his eyes wild as he looked around at the familiar unfamiliarity of the Fade that had once been his home. She wasn't expecting it when he suddenly whirled back to her, pressing into her arms to hide his face against her shoulder.

"Wrong. Wrong, _wrong,_ " he gasped, clinging to her as she stroked his hair. "Wringing me out, wrought right and rigid. Can't relax. Can't release ..."

"Shh ..." Amelia held him gently, berating herself for ever bringing him along in the first place. This was just cruel. "It's all right, Cole," she murmured to him. "We'll get you out of here soon."

"Thank you," he whispered back to her, slowly standing free of her embrace. "It should be like home; it's not. This ... isn't _me_ , not this part."

"We won't be here long," she promised him faithfully, hoping she could keep that promise. "We're getting out of here, all of us."

"I don't like it here." Cole rubbed at his watery eyes.

"You stick by me, kid," Varric told him, catching Amelia's somewhat helpless look in his direction. "I'll keep you safe."

That decided, Amelia watched as Cole moved to stand beside the dwarf, aware that the entire party was looking to her for guidance. To walk physically in the Fade ... it had only been done twice before. Once by herself, though she remembered nothing of it; more disturbingly, once by Corypheus and his fellow Tevinter priest-mages - that fateful journey that had cursed the world with darkspawn and Blights. Maker prevent such a horror being unleashed this time.

She hefted her staff, turning toward the distant vortex. "Let's move."

Together, Inquisitor, Champion, and Warden lead the way, following the tug of the Anchor on her hand across what seemed to be a narrow, rocky plain, dotted with pools of dark water and free-standing rock formation that had no natural place. But that was the nature of the Fade - it was shaped by the dreams of those who visited here, or by the will of whatever demon had claimed some small corner of this seemingly infinite realm. Amelia did not want to dwell on that thought, but one thing seemed clear - this part of the Fade had been claimed by the massive demon they had glimpsed through the rift from Adamant. They would likely have to face it before they could escape.

Climbing rough-hewn steps, she stopped suddenly, shocked by the sight of a familiar silhouette emerging from the shadows before her. She felt Hawke and Stroud come to a halt at her back, staring in disbelief.

"By the Maker ..." Stroud breathed. "Could that be ...?"

An achingly familiar voice answered him. "I greet you, Warden, and you, Champion."

Cassandra's gasp was both hopeful and disbelieving. "Divine Justinia?" she said, shock buffeting her usual composure. "Most Holy?"

The woman before them, who did indeed appear to be the deceased Divine Justinia, bestowed a kindly smile on the Seeker who had been her Right Hand in life. "Cassandra."

"You knew the Divine," Amelia said quietly to her friend, too used to the tricks of the Fade to accept what her eyes were telling her. "Is this really her?"

"I-I ... I don't know," Cassandra answered in confusion. "It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger, but ... we know the spirits lie." Her voice hardened, no doubt bracing herself for disappointment. "Be wary, Amelia."

"I fear the Divine is, indeed, dead," Stroud warned. "It is likely we face a spirit ... or a demon."

"You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand, alive in the Fade yourselves," the Divine reminded them. "In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have."

"Sure you can understand our concerns," Hawke pointed out. "Explain what you are."

"I am here to help you." The Divine's eyes turned to Amelia. "You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor."

She _wanted_ to believe, so badly, that this was Justinia before them, but Amelia was a mage. She knew the Fade held more than just demons. "The real Divine would have no way of knowing that I'd been made Inquisitor," she said reluctantly.

"I know because I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus," the Divine told her. "This demon is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes was its work."

Despite her reservations, Amelia found she trusted this being. It had not attacked nor offered a deal, therefore it was not a demon; a spirit, then, at best. "So it isn't Corypheus manipulating the Blight?" she asked.

"Corypheus is a powerful being, but he does not have _that_ power," the Divine assured her. "Only the Nightmare can spread such horror."

"I would gladly avenge the insult this Nightmare has dealt my brethren," Stroud declared, angry at having been manipulated at all.

The Divine smiled her benevolent smile. "You will have your chance, brave Warden. This place of darkness is its lair."

"Wonderful." Amelia sighed. Not only were they near a terrifying-sounding demon, literally, but they were in the part of the Fade it claimed as its own. "Corypheus seems to have a lot of demons at his disposal. How does he command so many?"

The Divine - or whatever she was - shook her head. "I know not how he commands his army of demons," she admitted with reluctance. "His power may come from the Blight itself. But the Nightmare serves willingly, for Corypheus has brought much terror to this world. He was one of the magisters who unleashed the Blights upon the world, was he not? Every child's cry as the archdemon circles, every dwarf's whimper in the Deep Roads ... the Nightmare has fed well."

"Tell me more about the Nightmare," Amelia requested. "The more we know, the stronger we are against it."

"Knowledge defeats fear," Hawke agreed with her.

"It is not simply fear," the Divine told them. "It is the terror you cannot remember, the horror your mind erases to protect you. When old memories no longer make the veteran soldier's hand tremble, it is because the Nightmare has taken them. Most people avoid their fears. It is simple for the demon to steal the darkest fragments. They forget, and it feeds. Corypheus has helped it grow monstrous."

"It makes people forget the worst part of their fears?" Amelia's frown was curious, suddenly wishing for Solas to make all this easier to understand. "It almost sounds like the Nightmare is helping people."

"Perhaps it was, once." The Divine had no better answer than that. "But now, it helps no one but Corypheus. By his hand, it _creates_ more fear and grows even stronger. In any case, robbing people of their fears is never a kindness. At best, it is a mistake born of compassion. Without fear, and pain, and failure, we cannot learn; we cannot grow. As _you_ cannot grow until you recover all that was taken from you."

"And how do I do that?" she asked, not particularly happy about having to prolong their stay in the Fade.

"When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you," the Divine told her. "Before you do anything else, you must recover it. _These_ are your memories, Inquisitor." She gestured, and Amelia turned to see wraiths forming around them.

"Oh, trust you to have memories that fight back, " Varric drawled, dropping Bianca from his back to take aim as Hawke, Stroud, and Cassandra charged.

It was a short fight, the wraiths so taken aback by the experienced enemy that not one of Amelia's spells found a living target. As the last wraith fell, the air around them seemed to thicken, holding them all in place as a scene played out before their eyes. Divine Justinia - the _real_ Divine Justinia - alive and in peril, held in magical restraints by ... by Grey Wardens. And Corypheus, the orb Solas had spoken of in his hand, advancing on his captive.

"Keep the sacrifice still." Corypheus raised the orb, bright light flaring from his stolen elvhen artifact.

Panic rose in Justinia's eyes. "Someone!" she screamed in true terror. "Help me!"

And in answer to that cry for help, the door beyond her opened to reveal a mage, peering in curiously. Amelia stared - that was _her_.

"What's going on here?" she heard herself of two years before ask, polite and timid. She could feel Hawke and Stroud looking at her askance; they had never experienced the shy woman she had been before Corypheus' attack on Haven.

As they watched, Justinia took that opportunity to break free of her restraints, one arm flailing wildly toward the orb in Corypheus' outstretched hand. It was knocked from his grasp, crashing down to roll over the stone floor toward the mage Amelia had been. The shy woman picked it up, and the orb flared once more. She screamed in pain, her whole hand engulfed in that light as the Anchor was burned into her flesh, into her soul. The twisted form that was Corypheus snarled, rushing forward to intervene, and the magic ignited, setting off the explosion that had killed so many.

The vision faded. Amelia found herself leaning back against the unearthly stone, her mind whirling. The Anchor, the explosion ... it had all been _her_ fault. Her mark wasn't a gift from Andraste, but a result of her own stupid curiosity. The explosion that destroyed the Temple and all those people within it ... _her_ fault. The people of Haven had been right in the first place; she was no Herald. She really was nothing but a thief and an incidental murderer, raised to this position because of what she had done with her stolen mark.

"No." Cole's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Not a murderer, not a thief. You are the gentle hand that guides, the smile that saves. Herald and home, leader and loved. Nothing is not what you are."

"I'd say you were the bravest person at the Conclave," Varric agreed, quicker on the uptake where Cole was concerned than any of the others. He guessed only too quickly that Cole was refuting Amelia's thoughts. "How many were there? How many of the Knights Vigilant, who are supposed to be her bodyguard? But you're the only one who went looking when the Divine called for help."

"And I set off a chain reaction that killed everyone," she argued hopelessly.

"They were dead the moment Corypheus arrived, Duchess," the dwarf told her firmly. "He knew what he was doing. I'd say we got lucky you interrupted."

"More of my awful luck?" Despite her dark thoughts, Amelia felt herself smile.

"Providence," Cassandra interjected, catching up with what was going on. The Seeker did not want to see her friend blaming herself for so much death and destruction when it was plain that the world would be a darker place without her timid curiosity. "You did what had to be done, what you did not _know_ had to be done. If you had not been there, Cprypheus would even now be in the Black City."

"I wanted to believe it was Andraste," Amelia mourned, looking down at the eerie glow on her palm. "But I'm just an accident. It could have been anyone."

"But it was _you_ ," Varric said, gripping her wrists to make her meet his eyes. "Accident or not, _I_ can see the hand of Andraste in all this. Hell, maybe even the Maker Himself."

"Chose, not chosen," Cole added helpfully. "Help and hope and peace, not pieces."

"But this tells us nothing!" Amelia burst out, embarrassed by their faith in her. "All it tells me is that I should break that damned orb next time it starts glowing!"

"Yet even that information may one day help you," the spirit of the Divine said, her calm tone soothing to Amelia's bruised heart. "You have recovered some of yourself, but now the Nightmare knows you are here. You must make haste. I will prepare the way ahead."

Another breath, and she was gone, disappeared from view in this place that was no place. Cole took Amelia's hand, raising her onto her feet with an encouraging smile. Shaken by what she had seen, nonetheless she managed a smile in return, surprised to see Varric and Cassandra relax a little as they saw the expression. They were worried about her, about how she would react to the memories they had yet to recover; not because they feared the truth, but because they _cared_ for her.

"All right," she said as heartily as she could. "Let's get moving. Are you two coming?"

This, she directed toward Hawke and Stroud, who had both been silent since the vision of her memories ended. The Warden raised his head, meeting her eyes with a brief nod, but Hawke didn't move. The Champion was frowning, deep in thoughts that marred her face with pain.

"Something troubles you, Hawke," Stroud said, touching her shoulder to bring her out of those thoughts.

She looked up, a bleak anger glinting in her eyes. "Those were Grey Wardens holding the Divine in that vision," she said, that anger turned upon the only Warden in their midst. "Their actions lead to her death."

"I assumed he had taken their minds, as we have seen him do before," Stroud answered, taken aback by the accusation in her eyes. "Come. We can argue after we escape this dark place."

"Oh, I intend to," Hawke promised darkly.

Amelia sighed, turning her face away from them as they began their long trek through the Fade. The last thing she needed right now was her two strongest allies at each other's throats. Not now, not _here_. Here, where the normal rules did not apply and their every step was dogged by demons, she needed them to be strong and capable ... because she was not. She was afraid, and the Nightmare was hunting her. _Andraste preserve us,_ she prayed as they forged on, unable to escape the dark premonition in her mind.

_I'm going to die here._


	28. Chapter 28

Commander Cullen Rutherford was trying very hard not to panic.

Everything had been going to plan until that Maker-damned dragon showed up. They'd even managed to persuade some of the Wardens not to fight them. He'd been so _sure_ Amelia would be able to put an end to this if they just got her to Clarel, and he'd been right. _Why_ hadn't he factored in the dragon? They'd known Erimond was in contact with Corypheus, close enough that he'd known how to attack the Inquisitor using the mark on her hand. But it had been months since they'd caught sight of that dragon. They'd all assumed, even Amelia, that Corypheus was keeping it close. Oh, it was gone now, injured after Clarel's last attack ... but so was Amelia.

She fell, that's what the runner had said. She and her entire party had fallen into the Abyssal Rift as the parapet collapsed from beneath them. Scouts and soldiers both reported seeing a Fade-rift open beneath the Inquisitor, and many of them swore she had disappeared into it. But there was no time to speculate, investigate, or even grieve. Demons were still pouring from the rift in the main courtyard, and without Amelia, there was no hope of closing it. What had begun as a siege, Grey Wardens against Inquisition, had become a fight for survival, both sides standing shoulder to shoulder against shades, terrors, and demons.

Cullen fought with them, Leliana at his back, both knowing this was a battle they could not win. They had fought it before, at the Temple of Sacred Ashes - three days of unending slaughter as ever more demons emerged from the rifts in the Veil. But this time, there was no Herald of Andraste to save them, no special marked hand to seal the demons away. At best, their only hope was in the Fade, on the other side of that rift; at worst, she was ... No. He wasn't going to think about that. He _couldn't_. He had to hope that she was coming back to them, to _him_. Never mind the state of the world without her, he couldn't go on without his wife. It was too awful to contemplate.

In the midst of the braying chaos of battle, he could see her in everything - in the fierceness of his soldiers, in the determination of her friends; in the stunning sight of Grand Duke Gaspard and King Alistair fighting back to back, each protecting the other on _her_ orders. And just a few minutes ago, they had all seen a blinding flash from within the rift itself, heard the enormous demon scream in pain. That _had_ to be Amelia, didn't it? Who else could be causing such a creature so much agony at such an appropriate time?

A terror rose above him, letting out a wild screech as Leliana's arrow took it in the eye. Cullen ducked beneath the flailing claws, driving his shield into what passed for its belly, hacking one leg out from under it with two blows of his sword. The tail caught him a stunning blow to the side of his head, sending him crashing to one side, but again Leliana was there to cover him, tangling the long limbs in her bow. Cullen was forcibly reminded once more that the Left Hand of the Divine was far more than just a spymaster. Her grace and ferocity spoke of her years as a bard, her fearlessness harked back to her time with the Hero of Ferelden, facing down the archdemon and the Blight. He was incredibly lucky that she was watching his back, and he knew it. Her intervention gave him time to come to his feet, bringing his sword around to strike off the head of the terror as the rift guttered and sparked. A fresh wave of demons emerged, hungry for blood, but they were not alone. A moment later, Cassandra, Varric, and Cole erupted from the rift, hurling themselves into the fight.

Cullen fought his way to the Seeker's side, setting his back against hers as Cole rushed to cover Leliana. "Where's Amelia?" he demanded over his shoulder, dodging a lunge from a shade to strike off the offending limb.

"She was right behind us!" Cassandra shouted back, thrusting her shield heavily into a greater shade that challenged her. "The Nightmare was -" The shade pushed her hard against his back, knocking the breath from her body with the impact.

"Hawke'll get her out!" Varric roared, a volley from Bianca peppering the demons with poison-tipped bolts.

But no one was coming through the rift. Demons kept coming, but no Hawke, no Stroud, no _Amelia_. Cullen could feel the words of recrimination rising. How could they just _leave_ her there? Abandon her in the Fade with this Nightmare? He felt the impulse rise, already moving to follow it through, turning toward the rift, preparing to jump through and retrieve his wife himself. He heard Cassandra shout his name, felt the demon at his back, and abruptly the rift split open once more. Three bodies hurtled through, knocking him down onto his back in a spray of red-black blood and ichor, a demonic scream following them to echo around the frenzied courtyard.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, commander," the familiar tones of Warden Stroud broke through Cullen's perfectly understandable aggressive response as he rose off the commander to help the man up.

Pulled up onto his feet, Cullen felt raw surge of mana _before_ his eyes found Amelia. Dripping with demon ichor, she was just a few feet away, supported by Hawke as she concentrated. Her left hand was raised the Anchor blazing forth with green light. As her fingers opened, every demon shrieked as one, engulfed in Fade light as they were banished from the word of men, clawing against the energy that dragged them away. Amelia's fingers closed, and the rift snapped shut, sealed as so many others had been in the past months. There was a moment of shocked silence, and suddenly cheers erupted from every throat around them - even the mages were freed, what few of them remained.

"You did it," Hawke was saying, just as covered in demonic ooze as the woman she was holding up. "The mages are free!"

"Corypheus has lost his demon army," Stroud agreed. "But in the stories your soldiers will tell, their Inquisitor broke the spell with the Maker's blessing."

Amelia shook her head, sagging heavily against Hawke. "Once they understand what _really_ happened ..." she began, but Hawke squeezed her gently.

"Let them have the stories," she urged in a soft tone. "Maker knows, they _need_ this victory."

Stroud added his agreement, each of them knowing that the story was more important than the truth in the long run. Overruled, Amelia sighed, her eyes turning to find Cullen. He only just kept himself from crying out his relief as she smiled at him, limping from Hawke's supportive arm to his own.

"You scared me," he whispered to her, banding his arm tight about her waist, keeping her on her feet as the Inquisition and the Wardens looked on.

"I'll tell you about it sometime," she drawled back wearily. "Report, commander."

"The archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared," he told her, needing to _be_ the commander before he could allow himself to be the husband. "The Venatori magister is unconscious, but alive. We thought you might wish to deal with him yourself. As for the Wardens ... those who weren't corrupted helped us fight the demons."

She nodded, leaning heavily against him, more injured than she was letting on. "Stroud," she said, looking to their Warden ally. "Did it work? The Calling ... is it gone?"

The Orlesian Warden paused, a slow smile touching his blood-smeared face. "I hear no whispers," he told her, with no little relief. "You truly have broken the Nightmare's hold."

"And the other Wardens?" she asked, turning her attention to his fellows who stood nearby.

One spoke up. "The false Calling is silenced, Inquisitor," he said, gratitude foremost in his voice. "The Grey Wardens stand ready to make up for Clarel's ... tragic mistake."

"Warden ... Chernoff, yes?" Amelia's smile appeared briefly as the man nodded. "I'm glad you survived."

"As am I, Inquisitor," Chernoff replied. "But few of the senior Wardens did. Stroud, you're the ranking officer now. What do we do?"

Cullen watched as Stroud slowly looked to Amelia for orders, subtly adjusting his grasp to better support her weight. He wouldn't let her fall, not now, not when so many were watching. They needed to see her strong and capable, but as soon as he could, he would get her to the healers. And yet, despite his concern, he was so proud of her as she answered Stroud's unspoken question.

"You stay and do whatever you can to help," she told them, raising her voice to be heard across the courtyard. "Stroud believes that the Wardens are worth saving ... and I trust him. You're still vulnerable to Corypheus, and possibly his Venatori, but there are plenty of demons that need killing."

"After all that, you give them yet another chance?" Cassandra demanded, and Cullen felt Amelia stiffen under his arm, bristling on her behalf as the Seeker openly questioned the Inquisitor's orders.

"They hurt people," Cole protested, too, emboldened by Cassandra's outburst.

"We've all hurt people, Cole," Amelia reminded him. Her eyes flickered to Cassandra. "We've all made mistakes. Yes, this mistake was terrible, but it was laid out and manipulated into being by our shared enemy. Corypheus sought the destruction of the Grey Wardens. I won't let that happen."

"I should report to the Wardens at Weisshaupt," Stroud said in a troubled tone. "We won't be caught off-guard by Corypheus again."

"I'll do that," Hawke volunteered. "You're needed _here_ , to rebuild the Order in the south. Give me a seal or token to prove my legitimacy to the First Warden, and I'll make sure they know what happened here."

"Agreed." Stroud nodded gratefully. "Thank you, my friend."

Just as Cullen started to relax, however, another voice rang out across the courtyard. "I have an objection!"

"Of course you do," Amelia muttered under her breath, urging Cullen to turn so she could address the speaker directly. "Grand Duke Gaspard. What is your objection?"

Gaspard pushed past the soldiers and Wardens to stand before her, bloodied but unharmed. Over his shoulder, Cullen could see King Alistair, in a similar condition, frowning as the Grand Duke spoke.

"I will _not_ have the Warden mages in Orlais," Gaspard said vehemently. "We have already been attacked from within once, we cannot risk it happening again. So long as Corypheus lives, the Warden mages are a potential threat. His touch on their minds could return at any moment."

Amelia hesitated. The man made a good point, loath as she was to admit it. The Warden mages _were_ vulnerable, but short of ordering them all executed on the spot, what could she do about it?

"I may have an answer to that problem, you know," King Alistair volunteered rather cheerfully. He looked as though he'd had a little _too_ much fun fighting for survival.

"I'll take all the help I can get, your majesty," Amelia replied, glad someone else had the answer, because _she_ certainly didn't.

"There's this old Warden fortress I know," Alistair told them, his tone conversational. "Soldier's Peak, in Ferelden. Very isolated, a bit bleak, impossible to reach if you don't know the way. The Warden mages are welcome to make use of it until the threat is passed."

"With a complement of Inquisition soldiers, in case of attack from within or without, that could work," Cullen mused, glancing to Amelia thoughtfully. He'd make a point of putting several templars into that complement, if it came to it, and she knew him well enough to know that what they were proposing was a temporary Circle, of sorts. But what other choice did they have?

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Leliana asked Alistair bluntly. He gave her a blank look. "The present inhabitant, perhaps?"

The blankness cleared from the king's expression quickly. "Oh, _him_ ," he said, exaggerating his sudden understanding with enough comedy to raise smiles on the faces of those around him. Even Gaspard bit down on a smile at the Ferelden king's habit of pretending to be a bigger idiot than he actually was. "Oh, no - Avernus popped his clogs months ago ... went a bit strange and started talking to his underpants. I helped him on his way myself, in fact."

"Avernus?" Stroud queried, suspicion in his eyes. "That is an old Warden name, your majesty."

"He was an old man," Alistair replied. Cullen frowned; there was an undercurrent to this conversation he didn't understand, something that was passing between the Grey Wardens in secret. "Too old to get to the Deep Roads in time."

"And far too morally ambiguous to be fully trusted," Leliana added in a dark tone. Evidently _she_ knew about this person, too.

"Is it a suitable location, Leliana?" Amelia interrupted. This conversation could go on forever, but she wasn't having that happen with so many watchers hoping to get the story firsthand.

The spymaster considered the option. "I believe so, yes," she said finally. "With the addition of Commander Cullen's people, it would seem to be a highly attractive option."

Amelia nodded in relief, turning her gaze to Gaspard. "Does that settle your objection, your grace?" Gaspard nodded sharply, and she looked to Alistair. "Then thank you, your majesty, for your generous offer. Warden Stroud will need to coordinate with you."

"And _you_ need to see a healer," Hawke cut in, looking pointedly at the blood soaking Amelia's leg. No one else raised any further objections, possibly because the Champion was looking as though she was going to punch the next person who prevented the Inquisitor from getting the care and rest she needed.

"You may be right," Amelia admitted reluctantly. She looked up at her husband. "Can you ...?"

Cullen didn't want to agree. He _wanted_ to take her to the healers himself, to help her wash herself clean of the blood and gore and ichor that clung to her skin and clothes. To hold her for however long it took for the words to come, reliving her ordeal in the safety of his arms. But he knew he couldn't, at least not yet. He had a duty, and she trusted him to see it done.

"We'll coordinate and clear the fortress," he promised her. "We'll have the camp resettled by dawn. Cassandra can get you to the healers."

"Then that is settled." She offered him a grateful smile, gently and deftly handed from his grasp and into Cassandra's capable hands to begin the long walk back to the siege lines and the healers.

"Well then, gentlemen," Leliana announced, pulling his attention back to the present moment. "Shall we?"

It took the rest of the night to restore some semblance of order. Several of the Inquisition soldiers were feeling belligerent for the deaths of their comrades and the state the Inquisitor had returned in. It only required two examples, however, to dissuade them from treating the surviving Wardens poorly. Cullen was pleased by that, at least. In the end, though, he had the Wardens billeted with the Ferelden and Orlesian companies, who were marginally less put out. Gaspard and Alistair were even seen sharing a drink and war stories; evidently fighting together had nullified at least _some_ of their antagonism. Despite his injuries, Stroud insisted on being an active part of the coordination effort, and with his help, it was agreed that a small contingent of Wardens and Inquisition soldiers would remain at Adamant under Chernoff's command while the rest returned to Skyhold with the Inquisitor. To Cullen's relief, the casualties were not so terrible as he had expected, and though they had lost a significant number, the addition of the Grey Wardens to their ranks kept morale reasonably high.

Still, it was dawn before he could be released from his duties, returning to his tent as Leliana took command for the time being. Amelia was sleeping, the worst of the blood and ichor washed from her skin, her right leg bandaged heavily. Hawke was just as bandaged as she was, but conscious, sitting up as Cullen ducked into the tent.

"Do you need me for anything?" she asked, watching him shed his mantle and plate in expectation of the heat already rising over the sands.

"No, everything is under control, for now," he assured the Champion, easing himself down to sit beside his sleeping wife. "How badly is she hurt?"

"Physically? Not so bad." Hawke's pale gray eyes touched on Amelia in concern. "Your healer drew the poison from the wound, but she needs rest before he can heal her fully. But her mind ..."

Cullen looked up sharply. "What about her mind?"

Hawke sighed. "The Fade was rough on all of us, but the burden fell on her," she told him in a quiet tone. "She recovered her memories of what truly happened at the Temple. I think the truth has hurt her more than she dares to admit."

He frowned, his concern rising to the fore once again as he looked down at the sleeping woman. What respite was sleep for a mage? She was back in the Fade, so soon after escaping it, her sleeping mind aware even as her body recovered. Would the demon, this Nightmare she had banished ... would it find her there? Or would she be safe, watched over by spirits of valor and compassion? He hoped for the latter. She had been through enough for one night.

Cullen raised his head, meeting Hawke's worried gaze. "Tell me."

And despite her reservations, she did. She told him of the Nightmare and its terrible link to the suffering inflicted on the Grey Wardens. She told of the way it had taunted all of them, laying bare their worst fears. She told of the spirit that had taken the form of Divine Justinia to guide them through the dangers of the Fade. And she told of the memories Amelia had recovered - of the Grey Wardens' involvement in the attack on the Conclave; of the way the Anchor had been burned into Amelia's hand; of his wife's frantic escape from the Fade, her life saved by the sacrifice of the Divine. Cullen listened as she described the shock of those revelations, of how Amelia had seemed to disregard Corypheus' intentions to take the blame for the explosion at the Conclave entirely onto her own shoulders.

"But I think what's hit her hardest is the truth about the Anchor," Hawke said softly. "I don't know about you, but I don't think any of us truly realized how tightly she'd been holding onto the thought that Andraste is watching over her. To have that ripped away ... I can't imagine how she feels about it."

Cullen nodded slowly. He could imagine it, if only because he _knew_ his wife. "She's always been devout," he murmured, gently stroking a strand of dark hair from Amelia's face as she slept. "She _believed_ Andraste delivered her from the Fade."

"And now she knows the woman people saw was Divine Justinia, not Andraste," the Champion mused. "But that doesn't mean Andraste didn't have a hand in it. That's what faith is all about, isn't it?"

"True," he agreed. "But it will be the decisions she has made weighing on her conscience. So long as she was the Herald of Andraste, it was not _her_ giving the orders. She has spent all this time believing she was only a mouthpiece for Andraste's will."

"That's a good thing, though ... isn't it?" Hawke asked in confusion. "That she's made all these decisions herself. _She's_ the benevolent force that believes in mercy and compromise."

"It places her at the center of the story," Cullen explained. "Amelia has never liked to be _noticed_. She spent her time at Ostwick and Kirkwall trying to be invisible. She learned early not to draw attention ot herself. And now the world is watching her. Without Andraste to hide behind, she is exposed."

"But she's done so much good," Hawke pointed out. "Would she really rather be overlooked than praised for it?"

"I think there are times when she would rather have died at the Temple of Sacred Ashes," he guessed reluctantly. "To know the Divine chose to die so that _she_ could live ... that will never sit well with Amelia."

"Then you make sure she has something to fight for," Hawke told him in a fierce tone. "Not the world, not the Chantry, even the Inquisition. A future that belongs to _her_."

Cullen's frown was curious. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Just as dull as ever," she informed him archly, referencing a few conversations in Kirkwall when he had been slow to catch her drift. "I'm talking about _you_. You love her, don't you? She loves you; anyone with eyes can see that. So the future she needs to fight for is the one she spends with _you_. Decide what you want, paint the picture for her. Build an achievable dream together. She's not the Herald, or the Inquisitor. She's Amelia, and _Amelia_ needs a future beyond the immediate crisis."

She was right. Cullen knew she was right. The Herald of Andraste no longer existed; the Inquisitor would not outlast the Inquisition. But Amelia would, if she had reason to. What did that future look like for her, he wondered, knowing his own hopes. When he thought of the future, he saw a home for them, far away from templars and mages and politics, living a simple life. Farmers, perhaps, near his family in South Reach. And children - a boy and a girl, dark-haired like their mother, filling their home with laughter. Maybe a dog, too. Compared with her noble heritage and the luxury of her quarters at Skyhold, it was a little scrap of nothing, but Hawke was right. The only question was ... would Amelia fight to be a part of his hopeful dream?

"I know," he said in answer to Hawke's demanding gaze. "She'll have that future. You have my word."

"I don't need your word," Hawke said, settling down onto her back. "I just needed to know you understood. Get some sleep, commander. You'll be moving on in a few hours."

_And you'll be going to Weisshaupt,_ he thought, watching her as she eased into sleep once more. Another ally, another _friend_ , out of reach. But Amelia wouldn't be alone. He would be by her side through thick and thin, and if it was her lot to die in defeating Corypheus, then he would die with her. There had been too many partings, too many unspoken goodbyes, in their life together. No more. Where she went, so would he, and never be parted from her again.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW - first paragraph is the only one with any plot development in it, so feel free to skip it if smut is not your thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gods, I actually wrote smut. Sorry about the wait, this is a scary thing for me. Hope you're not too reviled by it! :)

Blackwall was in a strange mood, Amelia reflected as she left the stables. She'd thought he would be pleased with the outcome at Adamant, but instead he seemed to have turned strangely maudlin. He'd invited her to join him for a drink, which had begun in silence, degenerated into a story about how he had once failed to stop children tormenting a dog, and ended with a compliment that had sounded more like an accusation. Strange mood, indeed.

She paused beside the well, tilting her head back to stretch her neck. A flicker of movement above caught her eye. Even at this hour, Cullen was still working, briefing groups of his agents and arranging support for soldiers out in the field. The hour was galloping on toward midnight. It was time he came to bed, she decided. Ever since Adamant, she couldn't sleep without him beside her. She needed the comfort of his closeness the same way he needed hers now. There was no shame in it. They were only human, after all.

At this time of night, he would have locked two of the three doors to his office, which meant passing through Solas' study to get to her husband. To her relief, though, the elf seemed to have packed up his studies early for once. There was no one to stall her as she crossed the walkway that arched over the courtyard below, slipping into Cullen's office to lean against the wall in the shadows, watching him at his work.

He stood at his desk, surrounded by several of his agents, taking their reports with measured insight and trust. The Inquisition had made him the man he'd lost in Ferelden, given him back his confidence in his own conscience, allowed him to grow into his position of command to the point where he knew his men and trusted them in a way his former superiors had never trusted him. Eight months completely clean of lyrium had freshened his complexion, filled out his face. He looked healthy, strong, and easily the most handsome sight in her world. But she wanted more than to just _look_ at him; she wanted to touch him, know him, to renew the intimacy they had not shared for over four years now. It was never the right time, always something more important to take them away from each other. She was tired of always being the Inquisitor. It was about time she let herself be Amelia again, and Amelia knew _exactly_ what she wanted.

"Rylen's men will monitor the situation," Cullen was saying as she dragged her mind back to scene in front of her, handing a report back to the soldier at his side.

"Yes, ser," the woman answered, her confidence in the commander echoed in the faces all around her. "We'll begin preparations at once."

"In the meantime, we'll send soldiers to -" Cullen's voice faded for a moment as he caught sight of his wife watching silently from the shadows. She smiled, drawing her lower lip through her teeth, and his expression softened, his answering smile only visible in his eyes. "... assist with the relief effort," he went on, straightening from his lean to nod to the men and women around him. "That will be all."

They saluted, turning to leave the tower by the door Amelia stood beside, though not one of them betrayed even for a moment that they knew she was there. Cullen followed them to the door, pushing it closed in their wake to lean heavily against the solid wood.

"There's always something more, isn't there?" He sighed, betraying the way his thoughts had echoed hers in that moment of smiling contact.

"Wishing we were somewhere else?" she asked, careful to keep her soft tone light. _She_ wished it on a fairly regular basis, after all, but he didn't really need to know that.

"I barely found time to get away before," he laughed, locking the door as he turned back to cluttered desk. "This war won't last forever. When it started, I ... Well, I hadn't considered much beyond our survival. Things are different now."

"What do you mean?" she asked, pushing off the wall to join him.

"It's just that I ... I find myself wondering what will happen after," he admitted in a low tone. "When this is over." He turned to her, his gloved hand rising to caress her cheek. "I won't be parted from you again, Ame. We've wasted so much time ..."

Her eyes closed as he touched her, breath catching in her throat as that innocent, intimate caress woke the sleeping dragon inside her. Her lips turned toward his touch, pressing a burning kiss to the soft leather that covered his palm. It had been _so_ long ...

"Ame ..." Her name was a whisper on his lips, a prayer for her ears alone. "I-I ... I don't know what you ... that is, _if_ you ..."

"Cullen." She answered him in kind, his name barely more than a breath as she opened her eyes. She saw his gaze darken with desire that matched her own, encouraged by the loving want reflected back at him. "Do you really need to ask?"

He let out a relieved huff of laughter, his lips quirking into the roguish smile they both knew made her a little weak at the knees. "I suppose not," he conceded, his voice rich with warm tenderness. "I _want_ ..."

He pulled her to him suddenly, his mouth hungrily seeking hers. She stumbled willingly to him, feeling her hip bump the desk as she answered his hunger with her own. The sound glass smashing dragged her attention away, her head turning to look down on the shattered remains of the bottle that bump had dislodged. With a guilty cringe, she looked back to her husband, only to find a wicked grin lighting his face. In a motion so swift it robbed her of breath with a gasp, he swept the neat clutter of reports, plans, books and pens from the desk, both hands spanning her waist to lift her onto the now clear space. She laughed as she lay back at his urging, as he crawled onto the desk to loom over her.

"The commander is going to be disgusted with the state of his office," she warned with a playful giggle, the sound silenced as his mouth claimed her own all over again.

She heard another smash as his glass joined the bottle on the floor, arching up from the hard wood at her back to match him, kiss for kiss, one hand gripping at the soft prickle of fur that adorned his mantle.

"The commander can go hang," he growled into her mouth, filling her with the taste of his breath.

He pressed down, into the warm welcome of her arms, forgetting the discomfort of his armor. She let out a pained grunt, chuckling breathlessly as he pulled up, shaking her head at the apology written all over his face. Her knuckles rapped on his cuirass, denying him the words to apologize with.

"This has _got_ to go."

Cullen laughed, grateful that she wasn't hurt, lifting himself onto his knees above her to struggle out of his mantle and plate. Lying beneath him, she tugged his belt loose, trailing her fingers over his thighs as she held his heated gaze, her own eyes filled with promises she had every intention of fulfilling. Vambraces and pauldrons fell on top of the discarded mantle with a thump or four ... and then the swearing began.

"Maker's breath ... these blasted buckles ..."

Amelia swallowed her chuckle at the sight of him contorted over her, gloved fingers groping for purchase on the buckle that held his plate together at the shoulder. She pushed herself up on one hand, catching his fingers in hers.

"It might be easier," she murmured, bringing his hand back to her lips, "without these."

He stilled, whisky-lit eyes half-lidded, watching as she gently tugged the butter-soft leather from his hand with her teeth. Her eyes never left his, sharing the intensity of that moment even as he wordlessly offered her the other hand with trembling fingers. Barely had she unclothed those hands than they were buried in her hair, tugging pins and braids loose as his lips devoured hers, taking all she had to give, swallowing her soft moan of delight at his eagerness for her. Maker, it had been so long, _too_ long, since she'd let herself want him. Since she'd felt how much he wanted _her._

As he pulled the scarf from her neck, her fingers sought the buckles that frustrated him so much, smaller and more dexterous even through her own gloves. The plate came loose, shrugged away with a loud clatter and clank, and he bore her back to the desk surface, free to press close without fear of hurting her. Braced on one arm above her head, he smiled into their kisses, each tender touch of lip to lip traded back and forth until her head spun. She gasped as his fingers tangled in her now loose hair, obeying the silent instruction to lift her chin, his mouth descending to the sensitive line of her throat. Heat and dizzying pleasure combined, arching her up from the desk as her hands skimmed his sides, painting the air with her breathless voice. His hand left her hand, feeling its way down to her waist, claiming the curve of her hip in a bruising grasp.

The knock on the door was a sharp intrusion into a world that had narrowed down to only him. They both stilled, temple to temple, hoping the knocker would take the hint.

"Commander? You said you wanted to see this report straight away. Ser?"

Amelia felt Cullen stiffen, knowing he was torn between his duty and his desire. "Don't you _dare_ ," she whispered to him, gently bending her knee to press her thigh against the obvious evidence that strained between his legs.

He groaned at the teasingly intimate press, dropping his head to her shoulder as he gripped her hip tighter, his own hips pulsing with unconscious need, rubbing that aching bulge against her thigh through at least two layers of leather and hide.

"Commander Cullen?"

They heard the sound of a hand at a latch, and Cullen's head jerked up, his expression more than a little wild around the edges. Before she had a chance to ask what was wrong, he was moving, rolling them both off the desk and onto the floor behind it with a heavy thump. The breath knocked from her lungs, Amelia looked down at him with no little confusion, startled when he dragged her body down to cover his, fingertips against her lips warning her to be silent.

Suddenly, the runner's voice was much clearer, as though the barrier of the door was no longer there. "Ser? Is everything all right?"

Cullen closed his eyes tight for a brief moment, cursing the man's persistence in the silence of his mind. "Perfectly fine," he snapped, trusting that they were both hidden from view. "I am not to be disturbed, is that clear?"

Amelia lowered her head, biting down on the material of his padded shirt to muffle her laugh as the man replied. "The report, commander. You said -"

"Is. That. _Clear?"_

There was a moment of hesitation. "Yes, ser."

She felt her husband's chest reverberate with his disgruntled harrumph. They lay there in stillness a few moments longer, before he gave her backside a gentle pat, a signal that it was safe to rise and speak again.

"What was that for?" she asked with a bemused giggle, reluctantly relinquishing the heat of him beneath her to stand.

"That bloody door has a face hatch that opens from the other side," he grumbled, heaving himself up onto his feet. He stalked across the room to unhook the drape she'd always thought was just a decoration, covering the hatch in case anyone else decided to look in on him. Returning to her side, he shifted a little awkwardly. "I ... I didn't want anyone to ... Well, to see you ..."

"... being gloriously debauched by my husband on his desk?" Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him, lips swollen from his kisses curved in a decidedly come hither smile.

His eyes narrowed with playful annoyance at her teasing. "Take your clothes off."

The order vibrated through her, brushing roughly against the sense of modesty most mistook for shyness. "Here?" she heard herself squeak, hands pressing to her stomach almost protectively. Teasing was one thing; the heat of the moment was one thing. This was ... something quite different.

"Here," he confirmed in a low growl, knowing perfectly well what that tone did to her, a predator stalking his willing prey. "No one will see you," he added, whiskey-warm eyes promising that he spoke the truth. He bent his head close to hers, his breath warm against her lips as his fingers undid the buttons of her vest. "No one but me."

Her eyes closed, lips parted in expectation of a kiss that never came. She blinked, only to find he had stepped away, tugging his padded shirt up over his head, baring his chest to her wandering gaze. Lean and defined from a lifetime of soldiering, he was magnificent in the soft glow of the candles; all hard planes and broad shoulders, his skin smooth until the indent of his navel, where a trail of dark hair descended to dip beneath the waist of his pants. The watchful desire in his eyes made her breath quicken - as she saw him, he ached to see her. And if she was truly honest with herself, she ached for him to see her, too.

Trusting in his certainty that none but him would see, she drew in as deep a breath as she could, the fluttering butterflies that made her tingle melting into a liquid pool that burned deep in her belly as first her gloves, then her vest, joined his shirt on the floor beside them. Her fingers closed over the glowing mark on her palm, wanting to hide it from his eyes, but he was ready for that, reaching to gently urge her fingers to relax. And, without any sign of revulsion or fear, he pressed a kiss directly to the aching mark, sending an electric shiver through her form as the barely touched skin of her palm tingled beneath that intimate touch.

"I am not afraid of this," he promised her in a tender whisper, stroking his fingertip over the Anchor as her fingers twitched in response to the soft touch. "Don't ever be ashamed of allowing me to see you, _all_ of you."

As he released her, she bit her lip, glancing down to watch as her hands hesitated at the buttons of her shirt, the close fitting garment thin enough to announce to his hungry eyes what she did not wear beneath it. Indeed, the brush of her own wrist against the insistent ache of one taut nipple sent a jolt through her that she could not deny, and yet ... she wasn't quite ready to be _so_ bare to his eyes. Instead, her hands fell to her belt, undoing the toughened leather thong slowly under Cullen's encouraging gaze. Something in the way he looked at her, so possessive, so ravenous for more, gave her the courage to tease him once more, safe here in this little bubble of nowhere that was theirs to share.

She turned her back, bending from the waist to undo the laces of her boots as her hair fell in heavy tangles about her face. A strangled groan erupted from behind her, making her smile wickedly. He always had been susceptible to _that_ view.

"Amelia," he warned, the low rumble of his voice sending a fresh crackle down her spine.

In answer, she straightened, but only for a moment, nimble fingers undoing the laces of her pants. She bent once more, slowly peeling the hide from her legs. Gooseflesh rose over her exposed skin, but was it from the chill in the air or the heat of his gaze? She couldn't say, foregoing the habit of thought to simply _feel_. Warm hands gripped her hips through the low hang of her shirt, pulling her up to rest against a firm chest she knew well, aware of the insistent press of him against the cleft of her bottom as his breath blew hot on her ear.

"Don't tease," he breathed, the gentle prickle of stubble at his jaw a strangely enjoyable irritation over her sensitive skin.

"I'm only doing what I'm told," she whispered back to him, her breath growing quick and shallow at his touch. One by one, the buttons of her shirt gave in to the shrewd skill of his fingers, until the cloth simply hung from her frame, her assets covered but hardly modestly.

His fingertips grazed a line from the hollow of her throat, down the sliver of exposed skin between her breasts, over the indent of her navel, to brush the lightest of touches over the dewy cling of her small-clothes. The other arm curled about her waist, holding her back against his chest even as she arched, mewling softly at the unsatisfying tease of his touch.

"You're a witch," he accused fondly, his voice a tender rumble at her ear. "A beautiful, tortuous witch."

"I'm _your_ witch," she breathed in answer, her hand gripping his forearm tightly as his fingers slid beneath the last barrier that stood between his touch and her throbbing center.

"So fucking wet for me, Amelia," he growled, palming the tender bundle of nerves that crowed her most intimate place to sweep a single digit through the slick heat he had fantasized about for so long.

Her answer was nothing more than an incoherent gasp, her own hand muffling the sound for fear of anyone coming to investigate. _This_ was the Cullen she remembered in the dark nights, the Cullen she dreamed of; this was the Cullen who could turn her to water with a single glance, who knew how to touch her, who forgot his manners in her arms. Her _husband_ , who knew she wanted him, longed for him; who knew she needed him like she needed air. She was putty in his hands, dough to be kneaded and shaped; a trembling woman laid low by desire in the arms of a man who not only loved her, but _needed_ her, too. Caught back against him, all she could do was muffle her pleasure in her own palm as skilled hands and loving lips gave her the release her own awkward fumbling had never achieved.

And in the giddy aftermath, as she slumped against him, breathless and shaken, he was there still, holding her close until the tremors passed. He turned her about, lips stroking hers as she clung to him, overwhelmed by the shock of a long-awaited reward. Yet, when her hand strayed, wanting to give him what he had been so generous to give her, he stopped her, stilling her protest with a smiling kiss.

"Another time," he promised softly, the tip of his nose circling hers as they lingered together. "I _want_ you, Ame. May ... may I?"

She laughed - a helpless, happy giggle that made his smile deepen in answer. "Oh, love ... you never need to ask." A soft kiss found its way to the scar on his lip - _her_ scar, the one she had left on him in anger on her last day in Kirkwall. "Right here?"

"Hmm ..." He toyed with the idea of having her right there on his desk, the scandalous glint in his eyes sparkling all the more as she blushed, her hands moving to close her shirt under his gaze. "There's a bed up the ladder," he offered finally, his fingers reluctant to leave her hips.

Her lips curved in a tender smile of her own, rewarding him for his answer with a slow, searing kiss that made her toes curl against the cool flagstones. The strong arms she loved so well wrapped about her waist as he responded to her kiss, sliding down to urge her legs to wrap about his hips, to lift her off her bare feet. As he moved toward the ladder, she heard the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots, a softer thrill tightening her legs around him to realize that even now, caught in the heat of their connection, he was protecting her. Indeed, he even set her feet onto the first rung of the ladder, sending her squealing upward with a gentle slap on her behind.

The air was chillier up here, courtesy of the hole in the roof no one had got around to fixing, but she was barely aware of it. No sooner did Cullen join her than the passion returned in full force, her head reeling as he bore her to the bed, falling with her into the rumpled embrace of fur and linen, hands eagerly pulling at his pants, her shirt, desperate to see and touch and _feel_ one another for the first time in entirely too long. And there, finally, blessedly, he claimed her for his own, for his wife, for his love. Six years they had been married, but only now, lost in the heady mix of lust, warmth, affection, _love_ \- only now did she feel she truly was his wife, every nerve in her body rejoicing to feel him with her, over her, _in_ her. She was surrounded and enveloped; flanked and outmaneuvered; adored and desired and _loved,_ and for the first time in her life, she knew to her bones that what she felt was true and strong, unassailable. He loved her, and she loved him, and no one - not even a darkspawn magister with delusions of grandeur - could undermine that foundation.

"Maker's breath ..." Cullen let out an explosive breath, rolling onto his back to gather her close into his arms as they struggled to recover from a joining every bit as meaningful as the Wardens'. "Next time, let's do this in _your_ tower."

"Next time?" Amelia laughed breathlessly against his shoulder, unsuccessfully trying to brush her hair out of her sweaty face.

"If you think I'm going back to being celibate, love, you've got another thing coming," he chuckled back to her, tilting his head to meet her eyes. "By the stars, you are a beautiful sight."

Rising onto her elbow, she looked down at him, glorying in the knowledge that the rosy flush on his damp skin was her doing. "You're not _so_ bad yourself, you know," she murmured, leaning down to capture his lips with her own. "I love you. You know that, right?"

The tender look in his eyes was enough to steal her breath away. "I love you, too." His hand slid beneath the heavy hang of her hair, pulling her down to meet his kiss. "Long after all this is just a distant memory, I will love you," he promised faithfully. "For as long as there is life in my body, I am yours, come what may."

No promise had ever been made so sweetly, so sincerely; each word infused with a purity of purpose that could not be answered with words. And no more words were spoken that night. All through the darkness, until dawn flickered into life, man knew woman, husband knew wife, safe in the knowledge that only death could part them. And determined that it would not, for many years to come.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the lack of updates. Long story short - life happened in a stressful way and I lost momentum. To counter this, I have decided that I will probably be skipping quickly through the big battle sequences that are coming up, since we all know what happens, anyway. We're in the final straits now!

* * *

 

"It is time, Inquisitor."

Amelia drew her gaze back from the windows, turning to look across the war table to where her advisors waited. It was time. Long overdue in one case, according to popular opinion. She couldn't put this off any longer. With Leliana's people and their allies closing in on Corypheus' position in the Arbor Wilds, this might well be the last space to breathe any one of them could expect for some time to come. That meant she had to perform a duty she had never cared for, a duty that many people expected of her. It was also a duty she had not performed since before she had discovered the truth of the Anchor and the Divine. For the first time, she would be passing judgment in the sure knowledge that the words were wholly her own.

"All of them?" she asked, her voice trembling. They knew what she was _really_ asking. Two of those who had to come before her for judgment were closely tied to her, in blood and in friendship.

"Florianne du Chalons was executed yesterday morning, by her brother's hand," Leliana answered the unspoken side of the question. "In exchange, Orlais has formally relinquished all rights to the judgment and punishment of Thom Rainier."

Or Blackwall, as they had known him. Just when he had shaken off the past he had been running from, he had given himself up to the Orlesians, claiming his true name and accepting responsibility for the terrible crime he had committed years before. And, despite her horror, Amelia had not been able to leave it there. Whatever else he had once been, he was her _friend_. With Cullen's help, she had petitioned the Empress for a prisoner exchange - the former Grand Duchess for Thom Rainier, and, to everyone's surprise, the petition had been granted. And now ... she had to sit in judgment over a friend, his life in her hands.

"How many, Josephine?"

The ambassador checked her notes. "Four, your worship," she told Amelia gently. "The nobles have been summoned. Everyone is waiting for you."

"And still no word from my father?" she asked, tense with quiet hope.

Josephine shook her head, her expression a mask of concern for her friend. "Only that he accepts your authority to judge his heir."

Amelia sighed. She had been hoping someone would find a way to lift that particular burden from her shoulders. But no. This would likely prove every bit as unpleasant as she imagined. "Then we'd best get to it, hadn't we?"

The main hall was packed with bodies. Visiting nobles stood shoulder to shoulder with officially appointed ambassadors, soldiers, scouts, workers. The low hum of chatter peaked as the Inquisitor entered, flanked by her three advisors, walking with slow purpose to the throne that stood on the dais. Amelia mounted the steps, taking a moment to compose herself before she turned back to the hall, taking her seat in silence. That silence spread as she let her eyes travel over the gathering before her, the quiet buzz of voices stilling in the wake of her gaze.

"The court of the Inquisition is now in session," Cullen intoned, formal words falling like lead into the expectant silence. "All evidence has been heard; all defenses weighed and measured. We gather now to bear witness to the passing of the Inquisitor's sentence."

Josephine moved to stand at Amelia's right hand, her expression grave. "Your worship, I submit the case of Lord Lorent Trevelyan of Ostwick," she said, each word clear as Lorent was escorted to stand before the throne, his hands bound. "His trial proved beyond doubt his attempt to assassinate both yourself and Commander Cullen during the course of the masquerade at Halamshiral. He is also known to have been complicit with the ambitions of the executed traitor, Florianne du Chalons. He has made no declaration of innocence, but no confession of guilt, either."

Amelia looked down at her brother, shackled before her. He was defeated; she knew him well enough to recognize that in the way he held himself. Yet, despite his defeat, he met her gaze with contempt, confident that there was no punishment she could hand down to him that would not reflect badly on her, and the Inquisition as a whole.

"Do you have anything further you wish to say, before the sentence is passed?" she asked, giving him one last chance to dig himself out of the hole he had so willingly jumped into.

"I do not recognize the authority of this court," Lorent declared contemptuously. "Nor will my father accept the judgment of a heretic on his sole heir."

"Bann Amadus Trevelyan has, in fact, set his seal to a declaration in support of your trial and sentencing," Josephine informed him, nodding to her assistant, who showed the prisoner the declaration in question. "While he does not openly support the Inquisition, he has accepted the authority of the Inquisitor in this matter."

As she spoke, Lorent's eyes widened, his gaze scanning the document shown to him in dismay. He had been the favored son for so long, he had forgotten that his father was no fool. If the title was the survive this, if the _family_ was to survive, Amadus would have no qualms in abandoning a son who had been caught engaging in treasonous international politics. And he should have known that. Amelia herself had been disowned, after all. Lorent's own actions had placed him here. His dark gaze snapped to the throne, and for the first time in her life, Amelia saw her elder brother afraid. Of the power she held, of the consequences of his actions, of _her_.

"I will not beg for mercy," he said then, his head held high. "But I acknowledge my guilt. I ask only that you remember that we are kin."

"Yes, we are," Amelia acknowledged in return. "A fact that did not prevent you from plotting my death, in association with an executed traitor. You told me yourself that you shared her ambition. Your personal ambition is at the heart of your crime; your callous indifference to the wider consequences makes you a danger. Yet you _are_ my brother, and though we have never been friends ... I find your sentence too hard to pass."

The murmur that passed among the gathered witness was sympathetic, but uneasy; if she was unable to pass sentence on her own kin, how could she expect her other pronouncements to be obeyed? Lorent's shoulders straightened, a sickening expression of satisfaction on his handsome face.

"Lord Lorent Trevelyan, I offer you a choice," Amelia pronounced, her voice silencing the hall as soon as she spoke. "To die a traitor's death by my hand, or to join the Grey Wardens and risk their initiation."

Lorent swayed back as though she had struck him. He had clearly never believed that his timid baby sister would ever have the courage to sentence him to death. But as her words sank in, Amelia could see him weighing the options. Death was an end, certainly ... but if he was accepted by the Grey Wardens, he might still find some way of exacting his revenge on her for failing to die when he chose.

"I do not deserve the honor you offer me, but I accept your offer," he declared, making a show of gratitude for the sake of the watchers around them. "If the Grey Wardens will have me, I will gladly join them to atone for my actions."

Solemn, Amelia turned her head to where a small contingent of Wardens were watching these proceedings. "Warden Stroud."

Her friend stepped forward, touching his fist to his heart in salute. "Inquisitor."

"This man is the responsibility of the Wardens from this moment on," Amelia told him, aware that Lorent's shackles were being loosened as she spoke. "He renounces all claim to title and land. I would suggest you initiate him soon."

"We shall, your worship." Stroud nodded to two of his fellow Wardens, who moved to escort Lorent from the hall. "With your permission, we will maintain him in his cell until that moment comes."

Amelia saw Cullen turn to hide a smile, even as she raised a hand to hide her own. Her brother no doubt thought he was a free man; it was a shame she was going to miss the look on his face when he found himself returned to the cell he had already occupied for four months. Straightening her expression, she turned her eyes back to Josephine, nodding for the ambassador to continue as the next prisoner was marched into the hall. This one was bound and held by templars, limping a little as they dragged him forward.

"Adamant's influence continues, your worship," Josephine announced for the benefit of the men and women gathered in witness. "I submit Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, who remains loyal to Corypheus."

"We found him alive, offering _extreme_ resistance," Leliana added from behind the throne. "No doubt because the Wardens will ask for his head."

Amelia frowned as she considered the proud magister before her. This man had set a _dragon_ on her in the middle of a demon-filled battleground, yet here she sat, in place of judgment over him. She genuinely couldn't fathom how much that must gall him. But what was this supposed to accomplish? He had almost destroyed the Grey Wardens of Orlais and Ferelden with the intention of using them to destroy the world, all for the glory of Corypheus. Until Corypheus was defeated, Erimond would not believe that _he_ had been defeated.

"Lord Erimond, your crimes are vast in scope," she said, her tone pensive. "I'm struggling to understand how judging you can make up for anything that has happened at your instigation."

The Tevinter sneered up at her. "I recognize none of this proceeding," he declared arrogantly, though the impact was lost thanks to Lorent's similar announcement not so very long before. "You have no authority to judge me."

"On the contrary," Josephine said in a sharp tone, "many officials, including the Imperium, have communicated that they will defer to the Inquisitor on this matter."

"Because they fear," he snarled. Amelia had to admit, she was impressed - even bound and held by templars, Erimond maintained his malicious belief in his own superiority. "Not just Corypheus, but Tevinter, rightful ruler of every piece of ground you've trod in your pathetic life. I serve a living god. Bring down your blades and free me from the physical."

And there was her answer, neatly provided by the posturing of the prisoner himself. "I am not in the habit of making martyrs for any cause, and certainly not for Corypheus," she told the magister firmly. "Since death is a validation for you, I will delay it. Lord Livius Erimond, you will spend the rest of your days in the deepest, darkest hole we can find."

Anger flared in Erimond's eyes, but he did not give in to it, answering with calm malice. "We shall see which of us outlives our legacy, _Inquisitor_."

She didn't bother watching as he was lead away, gesturing for Josephine to join her for a moment. "Let's call in a favor from King Harrowmont," she suggested quietly. "I'm sure he can find a suitable cell, and will allow us to rune and ward it so that Erimond's magic will be utterly useless to him."

"In light of what happened in the abyss below Heidrun Thaig, I agree," Josephine nodded, adding to her notes with a familiar flourish of her pen. "And this keeps the dwarves involved in surface affairs. A diplomatic solution, your worship."

"I _did_ learn from the best," Amelia reminded her with a smile. "I have a truly masterful teacher in Lady Josephine Montilyet."

The ambassador blushed, ducking her head for a moment. "Are you ready to continue?"

Amelia let out a long breath. "This is going to be difficult, isn't it?"

"Probably. But there are only two more," Josephine promised her. "You have never yet put a foot wrong in your judgments."

_Because I believed Andraste spoke through me,_ Amelia thought to herself. _This is so much worse, knowing that She doesn't._ But she said none of this aloud, instead offering her friend and advisor a hopeful smile. "Any more goats?"

Josephine bit down on her own smile. "Sadly, no."

"Shame."

The next prisoner awaiting sentence was already being escorted to the throne. This one, however, was unfamiliar to the Inquisitor. It seemed she was a mage, given her templar escort; she was certainly a Grey Warden. Over time, Amelia had come to recognize a certain look in the eyes of the Wardens - an acknowledgement that they had only a limited time to fulfill their duty before the Blight claimed them. Stroud had it; King Alistair had it; this woman had it. She stood between the templars, her head bowed, as Josephine made her case known.

"Another of the lingering pains of Adamant, your worship," the ambassador announced. "Ser Ruth is a senior Warden of the Order. She was one of the many who slit the throat of another to bind a demon. She does not contest this. In fact, she surrendered to us." Josephine paused, clearly troubled by her next words. "She requests no mercy. She wants the public justice of the headsman's axe."

As her wishes were read out, Ser Ruth raised her head, letting Amelia see the anguish on her pale face. This woman clearly struggled with the knowledge of what she had done, her expression devoid of life and hope. She was already dead inside, slowly destroying herself with her own sense of guilt.

"You're very serious about this," Amelia said solemnly. "But there has already been so much death. Is more really the answer?"

"There is no excuse for my actions," Ser Ruth answered. Her voice was dull, lifeless, reinforcing the impression that she was past the stage of caring. "I murdered another of the Order, a friend I had known for many years. That blood marks me more than the Blight ever could."

"Excepting their actions while thralls of Corypheus, many treaties allow Wardens _any_ extreme if it opposes the Blight," Leliana pointed out mildly.

"I can't do it!" Ser Ruth bursts out, fire showing through her dull visage briefly. "I _can't_ use the greater good to justify my crimes, as if it would create a future I could ever be a part of. It is wrong that _this_ broke me; I've done worse with full sanction. I can do nothing except be an example of the cost."

"When fear clouds our minds, we are all capable of horrifying acts," Amelia said in response. "In your place, plagued by the false Calling, I might well have done as you did. Simply the act of becoming a Grey Warden willingly is an act of courage and sacrifice, often thankless, rarely acknowledged. Would you truly turn your back on the Order, your duty, your _life_ , for one misguided act performed with the best of intentions?"

"If there are no consequences for the worst of us, what will stop others from walking that same path, your worship?" Ser Ruth pleaded vehemently. "Let _me_ bear the punishment for all."

"You are determined, then?" Amelia asked, needing to be certain. "There is no other course you can see, but this?"

"My life ended when I stole the life of a friend to become the thrall of the Blight incarnate," the Grey Warden declared, her voice dull once more. "I have nothing to give ... to the Order, or to the world."

"I understand." And truthfully, Amelia _did_ understand. She could see herself in the broken woman who stood before her - what she might have become, in another life. "But the Grey Wardens are set apart from nations and politics for a very good reason. I have no authority to sentence you, nor will I create a dangerous precedent that others might use against the Order in years to come."

"Your worship -"

Amelia held up her hand, stilling Ser Ruth's protest. "You truly feel your life is over? There's a place for such Wardens. Ser Ruth, you should go to the Deep Roads, where your death may be as quick as you choose. The final act of a true Grey Warden."

"But ... this sends no _message_ ," Ser Ruth objected, even as her hands were unbound. "This is just ... an end."

"On the contrary, it sends a very clear message," Amelia corrected her. "That you are a Grey Warden; that no amount of manipulation can change that fact. You asked for death, an end. _This_ is the end that you chose when you became a Warden. You took a friend's life; don't dishonor their death by turning away from the vow you shared."

Chastised, Ser Ruth bowed her head once more. "Then, with your permission, Inquisitor, I will join the Legion of the Dead."

"I cannot give you that permission, Ser Ruth," Amelia told her gently. "But Senior Warden Stroud may."

All eyes turned to Stroud, standing near the throne. He seemed to stand a little straighter, aware that the world was watching through the eyes of their chosen representatives. "Ser Ruth, permission is granted," he declared for the hall to hear. "Join our brothers and sisters in the shadows and know that, in time, _we_ shall join you. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance."

"In death, sacrifice." Ser Ruth straightened her shoulders, saluting Stroud as the other Wardens saluted her, a solemn farewell for one of their number who had decided her time had come. "Your worship, thank you." She bowed, turning to leave the hall with her head held high, some of her honor returned in the ritualized words that meant nothing to non-Wardens, yet clearly meant something very profound indeed to their Order.

"Thank you, my friend," Stroud murmured as Amelia leaned back in her seat. "She would not have accepted that from me."

Amelia smiled faintly, inclining her head in acknowledgement of his gratitude. It felt _wrong_ to have even suggested a fate for a Grey Warden, no matter the woman's crimes. To know that the other Wardens believed she had done the right thing was a balm to her troubled mind. But just the sight of the next prisoner being brought before her was enough to send a chill down her spine, knowing she could not escape this sentencing as she had her brother's.

"Clear the hall," she ordered sharply. "All but official personnel."

To her left, she heard Cullen give the order, watching as the soldiers escorted everyone who did not have an official reason to be present out the door. And why did she want that provision for this prisoner? Because he was her friend, despite everything he had done. He had suffered enough gossip and hearsay already; even if she could do nothing else, she could preserve what dignity he had left. She refused to allow the visiting nobles from Orlais to treat his tragedy as some perverse entertainment they could titter about in corners for weeks and months to come. The man stood silent between his jailers, his head bowed, his bearded jaw set in what she recognized as anger.

"For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall," Josephine announced in reluctant tones. No one had seen this coming, not even Leliana. It was just a relief that he'd only stolen the man's name, and not his life as well. "His crimes ... Well, you are aware of his crimes. The decision of what to do with him is yours."

His crimes ... what a long list they were. The solicited murder of a nobleman and his entire family, including the children, for nothing more than gold; abandoning the men under his command to face punishment while he fled; living as another man, a _good_ man, to hide from his crime. Yet he had also joined the Inquisition without a second thought; defended her against many foes; saved her life on more than one occasion. And he _had_ acknowledged his guilt, eventually. But seeing him before her, shackled and steaming with unexpressed anger, she didn't know if she had made the right decision in claiming his sentencing for her own.

"I didn't think this would be easy," she heard herself say unhappily, "but it's harder than I thought."

He raised sad, angry eyes to hers. "Another thing to regret," he said heavily. "It was never my intention to bring you into this, Inquisitor."

_Inquisitor,_ she thought. _Not my lady, or my friend. He can't bring himself to even speak to me as the friend he has been for so many months._ "Did you really think I would not follow you?" she asked, her voice soft with hurt. "You are one of the best companions I have ever known. How could you possibly think I would abandon you?"

"I _wanted_ you to!" he snapped back at her, taking half a step forward before remembering he was shackled and under guard. "You were supposed to arrive too late, not call in favors to have me released to your custody! I _accepted_ my punishment. I was ready for all this to end. _Why_ would you stop it?"

Amelia sat forward on the throne, meeting his angry gaze with gentle understanding. "Because you are my friend," she told him solemnly. "Will you trust me now, as you did once? Will you abide by what I decide, here and now?"

"I've trusted you since the day we met, my lady," he answered in his gruff manner, his eyes shining with what might almost have been tears at the gentle way she accepted his anger. "You've had my back, as I've had yours; never once have you lead me astray. Aye, I trust you. To do what's fair and _right_ , no matter the cost to yourself."

She drew in a slow breath, sitting back once more. "You were already on a penitent's path, chosen for you by Warden Blackwall," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "He intended that you join the Grey Wardens, and I will honor that intention ... once Corypheus is dead. For now, Thom Rainier, the Inquisition needs you."

The man she had known as Blackwall stared at her for a long time, a myriad of conflicting emotions playing across his face. Anger, sadness, astonishment ... and finally, grateful acceptance. "As you command, Inquisitor."

"Warden Blackwall gave you a chance to atone through action, not merely punishment," she reminded him. "I find I can do no less."

Thom Rainier raised his head, bowing low before the throne. "I am ... grateful for this, my lady," he assured her, a hint of the familiar friendship in his voice once again. "I will serve you until you deem my service done, and I will serve the Wardens as long as I am able."

"And remain my friend, I hope." Amelia felt a surge of relief wash through her at his answering nod, glad she had found the middle way that allowed him to atone for his past, and kept a trusted friend close by for as long as she truly needed him there. "Then this court session is ended. Dismissed."

She watched as Thom's bonds were loosed, as he bowed to her and moved to leave the hall, no doubt to seek out the Wardens or to seek solitude for a time. As the various officials retired to write and send their reports, she rose from the throne, turning as Stroud approached her.

"With the exception of Thom Rainier, Inquisitor, I would like your permission to take our prospective recruits from here at dusk, and perform the Joining," the Warden said in a quiet tone. "When you meet Corypheus' army, we would be there in strength to support you."

"You have my permission, Warden Stroud," she assured him formally. "Be advised that we will begin our march in a matter of days. And thank you."

"It is I who should thank you, my friend," he said, his tone gentle and warm. "You have given us back our honor."

"You never lost it," she promised him softly. "Anyone can make a mistake. It's how you come back from that mistake that truly counts."

"You have the wisdom of Andraste, my friend," Stroud told her through his smile. "For the Wardens, and for myself, I thank the Maker that you found us in time."

She watched him walk away, touched that he still believed in her, even after everything that had happened in the Fade. Stroud was a devout man; those revelations could easily have turned his respect for her to disgust. Yet he was still here, and the example he set in his dealings with her was followed by all the Grey Wardens under his command. She could only hope Lorent would embrace his new role, and leave ambition and politicking behind him.

"All right," she said then, turning back to her advisors. "How long before we march?"

Cullen rubbed his neck. He wasn't exactly pleased they were going off to fight again so soon after Adamant, but he knew his people were eager to end the threat of Corypheus and his army. "Provisions and siege equipment are being packed as we speak," he told her. "We'll begin the march within two days."

"And the scouts?" Amelia asked, looking to Leliana and Josephine, who had needed to coordinate their efforts to ensure Corypheus' search of the Arbor Wilds did not go entirely in his favor.

"Have gathered on the eastern edge of the Arbor Wilds," Leliana reported confidently. "There seem to be a number of elven ruins there, all of which Corypheus has his people searching."

"Our allies know the area far better than we do," Josephine added. "Their help has been invaluable in delaying Corypheus' army."

Amelia nodded. "Details in the war room," she ordered. "I'll meet you there. Morrigan has something she wants to show me, which is apparently highly relevant to all this."

"Of course, Inquisitor."

Cullen curled his fingers about hers, lingering in the wake of the others' retreat. He drew her hand to his lips, pressing a firm kiss to the glittering glow of the Anchor on her palm, his eyes locked with her own. "You did well, Ame," he praised her, his voice low and soft. "You have no idea how proud I am of you."

Amelia smiled, stepping close to touch her brow to his. "It might be close to how proud I am of _you_ ," she offered, her voice just as soft as his. "I just want this to be over, Cul. I'm so tired of being afraid."

He wrapped his arms about her, gentle enough not to crush her against his ever-present armor. "Corypheus is the one who should be afraid," he told her fiercely. "You ... _we_ ... are coming for him."

Rising onto her toes, she kissed him tenderly, heedless of the curious eyes that turned their way from the people filing back into the hall to go about their own business. They all knew she was married to her commander; if they had a problem with loving affection expressed openly, they were free to complain to her face, if they dared. "Go to the war room," she reminded her husband in a tone tone. "Try not to kill each other until I get there. I won't be long."

He smiled his roguish smile, brushing a kiss of his own to her temple before stepping away to follow after the spymaster and ambassador. As for Amelia, she turned toward the courtyard, and the garden. Morrigan's apparent _wonder_ had better be worth all the mystery surrounding her invitation to see it. They were running out of time.


	31. Chapter 31

The Arbor Wilds was proving to be unforgiving terrain to travel through.

Quite apart from the bands of red templars spread through the bright greenery of the place, it was filled with elven ruins - great, crumbling edifices of stone choked with crawling vines and gnarled roots, humming with the ancient magic that had once gone into the building and maintaining of what must have been a jewel of a city. The Wilds had reclaimed it all, gathering its suffocating limbs over every arch and stone until all that remained were glimpses into a world long since lost to time. The air was thick and hot with the growth of so much wildness, cloying and sticky, with no breeze to alleviate the never-ending sense of oppression.

After three days, Amelia and her party were obliged to relinquish their mounts to continue on foot, making their way from one friendly camp to the next as they struck deep into the Wilds on Corypheus' trail. The fifth night found them within a mile or so of the main bulk of Corypheus' army, entering a Grey Warden camp to get some rest before continuing on. As Thom and Varric made straight for the food, Amelia's first port of call was the freshwater pool, splashing cool moisture onto her hot face to try and relieve some of the nausea the encompassing heat was inflicting upon her.

"Amelia."

She looked up, unable to keep from smiling at the worried expression on Cassandra's face. The Seeker passed her a freshly-filled water-skin, watching closely as she washed out her mouth before drinking.

"Are you well?" Cassandra asked in concern. "You are flushed, and pale. And I have not seen you eat since dawn."

"It's just the heat, Cassandra," she promised her friend. "There's so little air here ... it's making me a bit queasy, that's all."

"It _is_ close," Cassandra agreed, washing her own face with a cloth. "And, of course, you wear cloth armor. That will feel hotter as it takes on the moisture from the air. You have not been bitten?"

Amelia snorted with laughter. "Not like Varric and Thom, no," she assured the Seeker in amusement. "I suppose I just don't have enough body hair to tempt the biting insects away from them."

By contrast, Varric's hairy chest and Thom's luxuriant beard were infested with tiny purple lice that no amount of combing or repellent could remove. They were both miserable, complaining constantly ... and judging by Cassandra's smirk, she found it just as funny as Amelia did. To add insult to injury, Dorian was so fastidious with his cleanliness that _he_ had nothing at all infesting his glorious mustache. They'd camped together last night, before their main party had broken off, and the teasing around the fire had been too much for Sera to handle. The poor victims were going to have to shave if they wanted to avoid getting any kind of infection - Thom was already planning to do just that, sick of the random bites that hurt hours after being inflicted and kept him from sleeping easily. Varric was holding out for some kind of magical intervention, which he didn't yet believe might actually entail burning his chest hair off at the roots.

"Inquisitor!"

Amelia turned to find a familiar elf at her back - one of Leliana's most trusted agents. "Charter, isn't it?"

"Yes, your worship." Charter handed her a small sheaf of messages. "Dispatches for you."

Swallowing another mouthful of water, Amelia handed the skin back to Cassandra, taking the papers as she did so. "How are we doing, Charter?"

"Several large encampments of red templars have already been cleared, with minimal casualties on our part," the elven agent reported, watching as she glanced through the dispatches that were marked with Cullen's familiar scrawl. "The bulk of Corypheus' army seems to be headed northward; scouts are engaged in delaying tactics. Corrupted Wardens have been sighted among the enemy, but there appears to be a third party in the field."

"Someone else has joined the fighting?" Amelia asked in a sharp tone, wondering why she hadn't been made aware of this sooner. Had Josephine convinced another ally to join in, too? "On whose side?"

"Neither, your worship," Charter told her. "It appears to be an unknown elven force, and they attack indiscriminately. So far, any attempt to make contact with them has been met with violence."

Amelia sighed. "And I thought this would be simple," she said wearily. "Thank you, Charter. Any news on Lady Morrigan's progress?"

Charter bit down a smirk. "She reached the main camp at midday," she said in amusement. "She caught Madame de Fer trying to convince the Empress not to trust her."

"Oh, I bet that went down well," Amelia responded, attempting not to laugh. Morrigan and Vivienne had been at each other's throats for weeks now, and despite the severity of their enmity, it was very funny to watch.

"Commander Cullen had them forcibly separated after an hour," Charter informed her almost gleefully. "And only because the madame threw a fireball too close to the trebuchets."

Amelia laughed, shaking her head. "I'm sorry I missed that," she mourned impishly. "Thank you. Don't forget to get some rest yourself. It looks like everything is coming to a head tomorrow."

"Yes, your worship."

As Charter moved away, Amelia headed for the nearest campfire, where her party had settled themselves among the Grey Wardens. She flicked through the dispatches, half an ear on the conversations around her. Both King Alistair and Grand Duke Gaspard had shown up unexpectedly, but Cullen reported that they had taken their forces west and south without argument. It seemed as though both men just wanted to be able to say they had been here. Morrigan's report confirmed that Corypheus was searching the elven ruins - her assumption that he was looking for the eluvian seemed to be accurate. They _had_ to prevent him from reaching it, at all costs.

A scraping sound from nearby had her smiling as she looked up. Thom had taken a sharp blade to his full beard, in the process of removing the infested hair before the constant bites drove him insane. It appeared that a fair number of the Wardens had already done so themselves; there were several newly-clean chins on display.

A young Warden offered her a bowl of steaming stew. "You should eat, your worship," he recommended. "No telling when your next chance'll come."

Despite feeling her stomach roil at the smell of the stew, she took the bowl gratefully. "You're right," she agreed. Maybe eating would calm her nausea. She hated being so hot and uncomfortable. "Dare I ask what's in this, Warden ...?"

"Gower, your worship," the boy told her, his expression lit up with pleasure that the Inquisitor had asked for his name. "I killed it myself."

A robust laugh sounded from the other side of the fire, where a female Warden was stowing her gear for the night. "The lads brought down a brace of those bright birds," she explained cheerfully. "Took forever to pluck 'em, but they taste all right. I'm Hanneth."

"Give me ram any day," Varric complained mildly. he'd never been at home eating anything that could fly. Bull's enthusiastic enjoyment of dragon-meat had actually turned the dwarf pale.

"Meat is meat," Thom pointed out, wiping his now smooth face dry. His skin was botchy with bites, but they'd heal. "Won't be turning _my_ nose up at it."

"Looking good, Hero," Varric complimented him, absently scratching at his itchy chest. "Gonna keep it that way?"

Thom rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his bald chin, wincing as his fingers rubbed a few sensitive spots. "I may," he conceded. "The beard's easier to maintain, though. Warmer in winter, too."

"I think the beard suits you," Cassandra offered, glancing down awkwardly as they all looked her way. "Not that my opinion should matter."

"The opinion of a beautiful woman is always welcome, my lady," Thom assured her, grinning as the Seeker blushed and turned her focused attention back to eating.

"Does that work on all women?" Gower asked curiously. "That ... flattery thing."

"Isn't flattery if it's true, lad," Thom told him warmly. "The Seeker's a beautiful woman. Like the Inquisitor is. They should be told so, especially in places like these."

"Why especially here?" the lad asked, his curiosity piqued by the straight answer.

"It's fairly simple, kid," Varric interjected. "Nasty forest, hot and uncomfortable, long days walking through mud ... no one looks their best. Reminding them they're beautiful is a courtesy."

"It's good manners, lad," Thom clarified for Gower.

The young Warden nodded slowly, turning to Amelia with obvious intent. "You are very beautiful, Inquisitor."

To her credit, she managed not to laugh at his earnest compliment. "That's very kind of you to say, Warden Gower."

As Gower turned to bestow the same compliment on Hanneth, however, the older Warden stopped him in his tracks. "Don't even think about it," she informed him with a grin. "I'm a weathered old fart, and I know it."

The round of laughter that went up at this was comfortable and warm - the Wardens knew each other well, easy in each other's company. Gower blushed even as he grinned, accepting that he'd been less than smooth in his wish to spread a little friendly warmth around the campfire. Chuckling at the boy's embarrassment, Varric turned his attention back to Amelia.

"Anything interesting in those, Duchess?" he asked, nodding to the dispatches on her knee.

She swallowed her mouthful, glad her theory about eating to quell her nausea was correct. "It seems as though there are elves here who don't want us _or_ Corypheus in the Wilds," she told them with a shrug.

"Great, now the Dalish want us dead, too," the dwarf grumbled with sarcastic good humor. "Any _good_ news?"

"We're close enough that tomorrow is the final push?" she offered, not sure if that qualified as _good_ news. "They think they know where Corypheus is headed, but he hasn't been sighted yet."

"Inquisitor?"

Amelia raised her eyes to meet the worried gaze of young Warden Gower.

"Is it true that Corypheus still has Wardens under his control?" he asked, and suddenly she was aware of many ears around her straining to hear her answer.

"It is," she told him, refusing to lie. They deserved to know the truth of the matter. "Despite the Nightmare's defeat, somehow Corypheus retains control over a tiny fraction of Warden mages. I won't ask you, any of you, to fight your brothers and sisters, but we need your help against the demons they will summon."

"I would rather die at the hand of a brother, than live the mindless slave of a darkspawn magister," the young man declared. "I know they would, too."

"Aye," Hanneth agreed solemnly. "If their only freedom is in death, then we should be the ones to give it to them."

"Better a brother than a stranger," another Warden said, and Amelia felt a faint chill ripple down her spine as she recognized the voice. Her head turned, seeking out its owner ... and there was Lorent, armored and armed, sat just outside the circle of light. His eyes were fixed balefully on her as a muscle ticked in his jaw. _She_ knew what he meant by his words, even if others did not.

"Grey Warden or not, Trevelyan, if you threaten the Inquisitor again, I will kill you myself," Cassandra said sharply. _She_ hadn't missed the implied threat either, it seemed.

"Why turn the noble sentiment of your fellow Wardens into a threat against the only reason you still live?" Thom demanded after her, tense at Amelia's side.

Her entire party was tense, subtly shifting to place themselves between Amelia and her brother. No one wanted a fight here and now, with those who were their allies, but if Lorent persisted in threatening her, Cassandra would not hesitate to cut him down. It was a very uncomfortable few moments. The Warden-lieutenant, however, seemed to have realized the problem, rising to haul Lorent onto his feet and march him away, into the gathering dusk.

"He'll not be allowed within a hundred yards of you, or your commander, your worship," Hanneth promised quietly as hackles smoothed and tension eased. "Takes time to put your old life behind you. Didn't think he'd be that obvious, but we thought it best to test him when we heard you'd be stopping with us tonight."

So it _had_ been a test, and Lorent had failed it. If he'd raised a hand against her, the Wardens likely wouldn't even have turned their heads when he was killed for it. Amelia felt Thom relax, herself breathing a little easier with that knowledge. "We have enough to worry about without looking over a shoulder for a friendly blade in the back," she pointed out uncomfortably. "I wasn't aware he would be in the Wilds at all."

"We're all here," Gower said calmly. "Will we fight, Inquisitor?"

Amelia considered him for a long moment. He _was_ young, far younger than any other Warden she had met; newly Joined, she guessed. His eyes didn't yet bear the weary acceptance of death other Wardens wore. "If you truly feel you can bear arms against the mages who should be standing beside you," she said carefully, "then who am I to stop you? My friends and I will be leaving long before dawn. Those who are _certain_ they want to be in this fight may join us. Those who remain will not be thought any the less of for their choice."

Judging by the expressions on the faces all around her, she had said the right thing. Not _all_ the Wardens felt the same way, as she could well imagine. She had given them an honorable out, assured them that they were not any the lesser for choosing not to engage in battle directly against mages they might once have called friend. Amelia doubted more than ten would be joining her when she moved on in a few hours, but those who did would do it by their own choice, not under orders.

"Where did that lieutenant take Trevelyan?" she asked suddenly.

"He'll be at the guard fire, about fifty paces that way," Hanneth told her, jerking her head in the appropriate direction. "Why'd you ask?"

Amelia sighed, rising to her feet. "Because he's my brother," she said regretfully. "And I can't leave it like this."

"Duchess ..."

"I'll be fine, Varric," she promised her friend. "No, Cassandra, stay here. He wouldn't risk harming me, not here. I owe myself ... one last try."

"You'll be safe with the Wardens, my lady," Thom said, more for their friends' benefit than for hers. "You've no shortage of protection here tonight."

She smiled faintly. "I know," she agreed. "I doubt this will take long."

She could feel their wary disapproval at her back as she left the campfire to walk the crushed path though the gloom to where Lorent and two others sat at the guard fire. Her brother scowled as she sat down beside him, unable to lift a finger against her even if he'd had the courage to do it himself. His fellow Wardens had fitted him with finger-cuffs and elbow braces, just in case, and sat with their blades bared. Neither one made any move to rise as Amelia sat. Despite a vain wish for privacy, everyone here knew that Lorent Trevelyan could not yet be trusted around the Inquisitor. They all seemed to have forgotten that she was a mage, but never mind. It felt ... good ... to be so safe.

"What do you want?" Lorent muttered eventually, when her silence proved too much for his patience to bear.

"I want my brother back," she answered simply. "The one who wasn't so consumed by personal ambition and petty paranoia. He was always an arse, but he never tried to kill me."

"Don't pretend innocence, Amelia," he scoffed derisively. "You've _won_. You'll inherit everything when Father dies."

"No. I won't. And I never want to." She turned her head to look at him, studying his profile. He was still handsome, still sullen. The Joining had not changed that, at least. "You were _always_ Father's first. Kurt and Wolf and Max ... it never occurred to them to contest your claim because it was _yours_. Evelyn couldn't have cared less about the title. And me? I'm a mage, in case you forgot. I couldn't inherit even if I wanted to. I _don't_ want to. But all of us ... we would have stood at your side against any challenger, if you hadn't pushed us all away. And now Father has no one but cousin Albrecht to pass the title to. Why did you do it?"

He remained silent for a long time at this, staring into the flames before them. Was he even capable of understanding what he had thrown away in their childhood, she found herself wondering. All her life, he had viewed her and their siblings as a threat, working always to discredit them in their father's eyes, never accepting that they were more interested in their own lives than his rightful inheritance. And even after that imagined threat had been eliminated so violently at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he had continued to work against her, each decision more terrible than the last, until finally he found himself here.

"She wasn't my mother," he said finally, his words shocking Amelia into stillness. "You didn't know, any of you. _My_ mother was a serving wench. The only reason Father acknowledged me at all was because she died birthing me. He felt guilty ... and his wife wouldn't allow him to abandon me. All my life, I had to _prove_ that I deserved my place as his heir. Any one of you had a stronger claim than I, and he never let me forget it."

Amelia stared at him, startled by words she had _never_ expected to hear. "But Mother, she -"

"She never treated me any differently," he said, finishing her sentence before it began. "I know. She took me for her own, and never once did she hold my parentage against me. Why do you think I never moved openly against any of you until after her death? I loved her more dearly than I would have loved my own mother, because she _chose_ me. I'm glad she didn't live to see us come to this."

"She was a good woman," Amelia agreed softly. "I miss her everyday."

"As do I." Lorent sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Her death changed Father. He grew colder, more unforgiving. You were lucky to be out from under his eye. Everything that reminded him of her was destroyed. Even Kurt was sent away. But not me. He kept me close, forced me to watch as a good man became a hard, cold monster, and I learned to hate her for dying. I hated her for leaving me alone to deal with him. I hated all of you for being her children. And I _despise_ you for being so much like her."

What should have been a compliment was offered up as an example of the worst crime she would possibly commit, yet in that moment Amelia understood her elder brother better than she ever had before. Her mother had been one of the kindest souls she had ever known. Their father had adored her, built his life around her, and when that centerpiece was suddenly snatched away, he had fallen apart. And he had made sure that only Lorent suffered with him.

"I'm not _so_ much like her," she told him in a quiet tone. "I don't have her boundless forgiveness. You despise me? I don't care. I've hated you since I was four years old, and I don't see that changing just because our lives are so very different now. If you die tomorrow, I doubt I'll mourn you."

"If _you_ die tomorrow, I'll probably curse your dying breath," he answered in kind, both of them regretfully matter-of-fact about their feelings toward each other. They had never been so honest, and likely never would again. "It will mean Corypheus won, and that would be something else to hate you for. So don't die, Amelia. Kill him first, at least."

"That's my intention," she assured him, oddly comforted by this strange conversation that felt like a parting of the ways. "Try not to let the Grey Wardens be wiped out, would you? There are still at least two more Blights to come."

He nodded to her, accepting this last suggestion calmly. "Go back to your friends, Amelia," he said in a low tone. "There's nothing left to say."

He was right. She rose slowly, letting her hand brush his stiff shoulder for a brief moment before falling away. "Goodbye, Lorent."

Stepping away, Amelia lingered in the darkness between the campfires. It hadn't been the reconciliation she had told herself she wanted, nor the brawl she had feared she might initiate. But it _was_ a goodbye, the last they would ever share. The only way either of them could let their shared past go was by never crossing paths again. Perhaps Lorent would finally feel worthy and secure among the Wardens. Perhaps she could finally stop looking over her shoulder for fear of him. Somewhere, before her birth, their story had been rewritten without either one of them knowing how. If this was the way it ended, then so be it.

Fate had set her on a different course, and tomorrow might well find her face to face with the worst evil in the world. When set against Corypheus ... Lorent just didn't compare. And that, perhaps, was the final blow he could not tolerate. After all his years of scheming and hatred, he just didn't matter anymore. She had a higher purpose, and no petty feud could stand in its path. She just had to hope she didn't let anyone else down as she went.


	32. Chapter 32

Skyhold was quiet, too quiet.

Despite the constant stream of messages flying back and forth from the rookery, it just didn't feel like _home_ without the ever present sound of the army on the plateau below. But they were still in the Arbor Wilds, mopping up what remained of Corypheus' army. Oh, it had been a great success - they had punched a hole straight to the ancient Temple of Mythal, captured Samson, and denied Corypheus his prize. Only the prize had turned out to be quite different to their initial suspicions. The Temple was set in place to guard something called the Well of Sorrows, the accumulation of knowledge gathered by every high priest of Mythal over countless centuries before the fall of Arlathan. The guardians of the Well had been violently opposed to Morrigan's intention to drink from the Well to prevent Corypheus doing the same. Amelia regretted those deaths deeply. But there had been no _time_ \- Corypheus himself had been right on their tail. So close, in fact, that their only escape had been through the eluvian, abandoning their army and allies in the process.

Ever since then, Morrigan had been ... strange. Stranger than usual, that is. She spent hours in the library, poring over ancient elven texts, delighting in her newfound ability to understand the often frustratingly vague language. She had not even emerged when Cullen and the rest of Amelia's inner circle had reached Skyhold, her only contribution to their return the announcement that she had discovered the purpose of Corypheus' dragon. The darkspawn magister was using the creature to store a portion of his essence; they would have to kill the dragon first, if they wanted any hope of killing him. _Finding_ him, that was another problem entirely. Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen all had their available agents and allies working on it, but their resources were limited with so much still bound up in the Wilds.

Still, Skyhold was too quiet. Thus, when Morrigan announced she needed to commune with the spirit of Mythal in a clearing that wasn't too far away, Amelia leapt at the chance to get away from the unfamiliar stillness. Her choice of companions wasn't much of a choice - almost everyone had sustained injuries in the battle for Mythal's Temple. She was left with Cole, Solas, and a very battered Cassandra, since the Iron Bull could not be asked to leave Dorian's side while her cousin convalesced. She had to _order_ Cullen to stay put - he was still shaken by her disappearing act through the eluvian. It took several promises and a firm reminder that he was responsible for Samson before he grudgingly allowed her to go without him.

And here they were. An ancient, forgotten place of worship, less than a week's journey from Skyhold itself. Summer made it shine with life; green grasses and bright flowers lead the way along an ancient pilgrims' path to where broken stone steps rose to the still form of Mythal herself, carved from grey stone and crowned with Grace. What more there might have been was lost to the ravages of time ... here and now, she presided over nothing more than waving grass and open skies.

"What is this?" Amelia asked softly, hesitant to raise her voice in this ancient place. She felt ... almost sad, to know that this had been a place of worship for the elves, before their gods had left them, before their very way of life had been ripped from them.

"'Tis all that remains of the great altar," Morrigan told her, her own tone oddly subdued. But then, given her reverence for all things ancient, perhaps it wasn't so very odd that the witch should approach this place with respect.

"At least it was allowed to go back to nature," Amelia said, running her fingers through the tall grass. "The Imperium didn't destroy it, as they did so much else."

"Indeed." Morrigan mounted the steps, leaning close to the weather stone to read the inscription. "We few who travel far ... call to me and I will come ... without mercy, without fear ..."

"Cry havoc in the moonlight," another voice spoke, and Amelia turned to find Solas gazing up at the down-turned face of Mythal as he recited. "Let the fire of vengeance burn. The cause is clear." He lowered his eyes, smiling a little to find Amelia staring. "A very old invocation," he told her. "Perfectly translated."

"Why, thank you," Morrigan replied sardonically. She and Solas didn't often have polite exchanges, though their relationship was nowhere near as volatile as her enmity with Vivienne.

"Without mercy?" Amelia queried in concern. "That sounds rather ominous."

"Indeed, it does." Morrigan frowned at the inscription a moment longer. "Your companions will need to go elsewhere," she suddenly announced, somewhat arbitrarily.

"I am not leaving the Inquisitor," Cassandra objected instantly. "We have been separated too much these past months. She needs protection."

Morrigan sighed. "You need not go far," she conceded in an impatient tone. "Your Inquisitor is quite safe with me."

"Unless whatever you summon should attack," the Seeker pointed out heatedly. "Or did you forget that you are now bound to obey?"

"If there is shouting, you will hear it readily enough," Morrigan informed her icily. "I cannot perform the summoning with so many in the circle."

"Then Amelia should come with us -"

"I'll be fine, Cassandra," Amelia told her friend gently. "I'm not stupid enough to try and take on Morrigan by myself, much less Morrigan _and_ whatever comes to her summons. Go to the other clearing. I'll scream if I need you."

"Separate and safe," Cole offered from Cassandra's back. "Ancient, warm, wanted. Protected by no one."

"The Inquisitor has plenty of protection -" Cassandra began, but stopped abruptly when Solas held up a hans.

"That isn't what he means, Cassandra," the elven apostate told her. "No one is _here_ , no one is always with her. In this place, _no one_ will protect her."

"That doesn't make any sense, Solas," Amelia pointed out, amused by the odd back and forth between her friends.

He smiled in his mysterious way. "It does, if you think about it," he countered, turning to the other. "Come. Mythal will not answer with so many of us here."

With staff in hand, Solas turned to leave the ritual circle, Cole close at his heels. Cassandra hesitated, but finally acquiesced to Amelia's urging, casting suspicious glances over her shoulder as she went, until she, too, was out of sight. Left alone with Morrigan, Amelia turned to the witch with a faint frown.

"You're _sure_ there's no danger?" she asked, needing to know if she should be ready for violence.

"Not to _you_ , Inquisitor," Morrigan told her, yellow eyes unnervingly calm. "As your pet demon states, you are protected."

"By what, exactly?"

No answer was forthcoming. Morrigan's focus had already turned back to the altar, leaving the identity of this _no one_ a mystery to be solved another time. Amelia stepped to one side, watching as the witch raised her hand, connecting herself to the ancient portrayal of Mythal with a pulsing beam of pure mana.

"You know who I am," Morrigan declared to the being she sought to summon. The arrogance of her tone shocked Amelia; surely a _little_ respect wouldn't go amiss right now. "From high priest to high priest, I am the last to drink of sorrows. Come to us, Mythal. Whatever you are, whatever remains, I invoke your name and your power."

_Please,_ Amelia added in the silence of her own mind, unable to leave the invocation like that, even if her addition was only in thought. _We need your help._

For a long moment, all was still in the grove. No breeze blew, no birds sang. Morrigan's invocation had brought down a watchful silence, as though the one she had called on was already present, observing them with unseen eyes. Then the whispers began, voices on the edge of hearing, speaking words Amelia couldn't quite grasp. First one voice, then many, the indecipherable hush rising to an unknowable cacophony as mist formed at the heart of the grove. And from that mist emerged a figure - a woman, white-haired and armored in ancient form, her glowing eyes surveying the two who waited with timeless curiosity. Amelia drew in a sharp breath. She could feel the raw power this being commanded, the Anchor on her hand sparking in some kind of recognition.

And it wasn't the only one who felt a sense of recognition. Morrigan stiffened, hissing with what sounded like fury a single word, laden with venom.

_"Mother."_

The woman smiled, seemingly delighted with what she found before her. "Now ... isn't this a surprise?"

As Morrigan growled angrily, Amelia laid her hand on the witch's arm. "I take it you know her?" she asked mildly, though quite how Morrigan would know a being who answered to Mythal as _mother_ was more than a little beyond her.

"She is a deceiving witch!" Morrigan spat. She shook Amelia's hand from her arm, gathering her will to strike.

"Now, now, that's quite enough of that," the ancient woman said with calm certainty, apparently unconcerned by her hostile reception.

She raised her own hand, and Amelia once again felt the power in her. She _felt_ the mana being drained from Morrigan at a single gesture. Not all ... just enough to keep the younger witch from attacking. Yet that wasn't all that had happened. Morrigan's very _will_ was suppressed, her arms falling to her sides as something overpowered her wish to do harm.

"What have you _done_ to me?" the witch demanded, fear suddenly dominant in her feline eyes.

" _I_ have done nothing," the woman told her sternly. " _You_ drank from the Well of your own volition."

Comprehension dawned on Amelia at those words. The price of the boon, the price Morrigan had dismissed so readily - an eternity of servitude to ... "Then you _are_ Mythal," she said aloud, just as the same thought occurred to her companion. Where Morrigan bristled, Amelia lowered herself to one knee without a second thought, bowing her head respectfully. "Thank you for coming. I had no idea what to expect."

She who was Mythal smiled again, though her words were for Morrigan. "You see, girl?" she said almost spitefully. " _Those_ are manners, as you require a demonstration."

"And you are quite capable of blasting me into oblivion if I offend you," Amelia pointed out apologetically.

The woman laughed. "Not you," she said cryptically. "You carry protection, beyond the mark on your hand."

More talk of this mysterious protection. Amelia frowned curiously as she rose once more. "I don't understand -"

" _I_ do not understand," Morrigan interrupted, clearly shaken by what was occurring. She glared at the woman she knew as Mother. "How can _you_ be Mythal?"

"Once I was but a woman, crying out in the lonely darkness for justice," came the answer, quietly seething with bitter remembrance. "And she came to me, a wisp of an ancient being, and she granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her."

"Then ... you carry Mythal inside you?" Amelia couldn't help asking, curious as to how it worked. Was she two beings in one form, with one dominant over the other? Or was it more symbiotic than that?

"She is a part of me, no more separate than your child from your womb," the woman told her.

"E-excuse me?" Amelia stared at her, feeling her mind come to a sudden, stuttering halt. What child? Whose womb?

But the ancient woman had already moved on, turning her attention to Morrigan. "You hear the voices of the Well, girl," she pointed out calmly. "What do they say?"

Dragging her mind away from its sudden desire to run in circles screaming and laughing hysterically, Amelia let her eyes find Morrigan. She knew the voices of the Well of Sorrows spoke to the witch - that was how she had known to come here, after all. Would they confirm or deny the claims put before them? For a long moment, Morrigan was still, her eyes closed as she listened to voices only she could hear.

"They ..." Yellow eyes opened, looking on the ancient being in defeat. "They say you speak the truth."

"In all things?" Amelia heard herself ask swiftly. She felt the blood rush from her head at Morrigan's solemn nod. _No one will protect you,_ Solas had said, confirming Cole's assessment. But _no one_ wasn't a spirit or some unknown magic ... _no one_ rested beneath her heart, no more separate than her heart from her chest. No one _was_ with her, and had been for some time, it seemed.

"But what _was_ Mythal?" the woman before them was saying, seeming to need this moment of sharing. "A legend given name and called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning." She stepped closer, one hand reaching out to Amelia. "A herald, indeed," she said mysteriously. "Shouting to the heavens, harbinger of a new age. As for me, I have had many names. But you ... may call me Flemeth."

"A name from Ferelden legend," Amelia mused softly. "My mother used to tell it to me." Her eyes narrowed as she considered this Flemeth and everything she knew of the legend built around her. "This meeting was no accident, was it?"

Flemeth smiled in approval, inclining her head to the mage before her. "Clever lass."

"The voices came from you?" Morrigan asked, her voice trembling even as she made the accusation.

"The price of the Well seemed no dire thing when you saw so much gain, hmm?" Flemeth's tone was brittle as she countered that accusation, but she softened, like a mother to an errant child caught misbehaving. "The voices did not lie, Morrigan. I _can_ help you fight Corypheus." She reached up, touching her palm to Morrigan's brow, and for the the briefest of moments, something seemed to pass from elder to younger. "Do you understand, child?"

Slowly, Morrigan's eyes opened. "Yes, I ... think I do," she agreed in tones of wonder. But as Flemeth turned to walk away, wonder turned to panic. "Wait!"

Flemeth paused, looking back at her. "I wished only to see who drank from the Well of Sorrows. It has been a _very_ long time." She chuckled lightly, her expression almost fond as she looked on the yellow-eyed witch who had once been her daughter. "Imagine my surprise to discover it was _you_."

"And ... that is all?" Morrigan didn't seem quite able to believe it, though Amelia could not have guessed why.

"A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan," Flemeth told her regretfully. "You were never in danger from me."

She turned from them then, disappearing back into the mists that dissipated as swiftly as they had formed. Gradually, the grove came back to life. As the birdsong renewed and the breeze freshened the air, Amelia glanced down, startled to find her hand laid protectively over the flatness of her belly. Was it really true, she wondered. Was she really carrying Cullen's child? When had it happened? She wasn't showing, she hadn't missed ... Wait. She _had_. Twice now, she had failed to bleed, and both times she had dismissed it as nothing to be concerned with. Morrigan was certain Flemeth had not lied, so ... A disbelieving smile tugged at her lips, her palm pressing tighter to her womb. Terrible timing, but ... _Hello, baby._

"All things considered, Inquisitor," Morrigan's rueful tone broke into her muddled wonder, "I now wish _you_ had drunk from the Well."

"I don't." The words were out before she could stop them, and for a moment, Morrigan's feline eyes were hard with anger as their gazes met. But Morrigan was the one who softened, glancing down to the protective hand Amelia held splayed over her stomach.

"You did not know?" she asked in a mild tone, smiling when Amelia shook her head. "Then I do not blame your wish."

"Thank you." Amelia turned, laying her fingertips gently against the carven stone hand that reached down to them, repeating her thanks in the hope that Flemeth might hear.

"What she said is true, at least," Morrigan said as they made their way from the grove together. "I have the answer to your problem. I _can_ match the archdemon, when the times comes. All that remains is for you to find Corypheus."

"Oh, is that all?" Amelia laughed. She couldn't help it - here and now, knowing what she knew, she felt invincible. And it would appear she was not the only one feeling that strength and bliss.

"... bursting brightness, fire in the darkness," Cole was saying as the two reached their companions. "Alive with light from tips to toes."

The spirit boy beamed as Amelia went to him, taking his hands into hers. "I just need one word, Cole, yes or no," she told him hopefully, ignoring the impatient confusion on Cassandra's face for the moment. She needed this answer, and Cole was the only person here she trusted to be honest with her, who had the skill to know. "Is it true?"

He clung to her hands, his watery eyes skimming down to her belly and back to her face, visibly fizzing with delight. "Yes," he confirmed, letting loose a sweet little giggle as she threw her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"Amelia?"

She drew back from Cole, one finger on his lips swearing him to silence, meeting Cassandra's worried gaze with a confident smile. "We have what we came for, Cassandra," she assured her friend. "Let's go home."

The journey back was far more comfortable now she knew the source of her strange ailments. Looking back over the past weeks, Amelia couldn't believe she had failed to put it all together - the nausea, the fatigue, the aches ... the uncomfortable sensitivity that had required not one, but two adjustments of her breastband to counter. Her sudden aversion to elfroot, which sadly had to be ignored for obvious reasons. Her unexpectedly voracious appetite for all things passionate with her husband. It all told the same story, one she had been too blind to see. And the things she had done! Thrown herself headlong into battle, fought Samson virtually single-handed, come within a hair's breadth of drinking from the Well of Sorrows herself ... but would it have been any different if she _had_ known? Everything she had done had been necessary; no one could have done them but her. And with Corypheus still at large, she couldn't just stop. She was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Corypheus was _her_ responsibility, no matter the cost. But was she really prepared to wager the life of her unborn child against every life in the world?

By the time they reached Skyhold, four days later, her euphoria was gone, replaced with gnawing worry that ate at her soul. One unborn life when weighed against the fate of the world was no choice, yet she still struggled to make it. She needed another perspective, but the only person she wanted to tell was the only person who would struggle with her for exactly the same reasons. She didn't have the right to inflict this pain on him, yet who else would understand? There was nothing for it. She would have to tell Cullen.

As luck would have it, he wasn't in his office. He wasn't in the war room. He wasn't even in their quarters. The captain of the guard was certain the commander was in the fortress, and in desperation, she made her way to the garden. Perhaps he was playing a match against Dorian. But no ... the board was occupied by a pair of bickering nobles. At a loss, she leaned against the cool stone of the cloister wall, trying to calm her thoughts. She must have just missed him. Perhaps if she retraced her steps ...

Just as she was preparing to head back toward the main hall, she heard his voice, low and fervent in the quiet.

_"... though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide ..."_

Amelia turned, her gaze drawn to the open door of the little chapel that was maintained by Mother Giselle and her assistants. Why hadn't she thought of that before? One thing she and Cullen had always shared was their faith, the comfort they found in prayer. It should have come as no surprise to hear him in the chapel, reciting the Chant, as he had done every day of his life.

_"... I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond ..."_

There he was, on one knee before the statue of Andraste, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together. The fervor he radiated was palpable, firm in his belief that the Maker would protect them. She envied him that strength of focus - somewhere along the way, she had lost her own conviction. At Haven, perhaps, when the Chantry's fables had been proved true; or perhaps it was at Adamant, when the truth had revealed no hand of Andraste at work. Whenever it had happened, she no longer believed so devoutly as she had before. Her faith no longer burned inside her. After all she had seen and done, how could it? The Maker, Andraste ... they were a comfort, but no more. They no more cared for this world than Corypheus.

_"... for there is no darkness in the Maker's light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."_

As Cullen fell silent, she stepped into the chapel, moving to thread her fingers through the golden curls of his hair. "A prayer for you?" she asked, her voice reverently soft in this consecrated place.

"For those we have lost." He rose to his feet, gathering her hand between both his own as his gaze found hers. "And those who I am afraid to lose."

"You're afraid?" she echoed, finding it difficult to believe. Through everything they had experienced, everything he had endured, Cullen was _never_ afraid.

"Of course I am," he insisted, letting her see that fear in his whisky-light eyes. "Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mythal; what _more_ is he capable of?"

"Be grateful you didn't witness it personally," she told him, closing her eyes against that memory. She would never forget it, but in time, perhaps, it would stop haunting her dreams. "It isn't a gentle transition."

"I am sorry you had to see it at all," he murmured, stroking one gloved hand against her cheek. "Was your journey successful?"

She nodded. "Morrigan has the means to match the archdemon," she assured him, and for just a moment, the words hovered on the tip of her tongue - _I'm pregnant. You're going to be a father._ But he had already moved on.

"I'm glad of that," he said solemnly, his fingers grazing her neck with tender intimacy. "It's only a matter of time before he retaliates. We _must_ draw strength wherever we can. When the time comes ..." He blew out a strained breath, leaning down to press his brow to hers. "You will be thrown into his path again. Andraste preserve me ... _I_ must send you to him."

Despite her own fear, Amelia felt herself smile, needing him to believe she was sure of victory. "There's nothing to worry about," she promised, with a confidence she did not feel. "I have luck on my side, remember?"

From beneath the hang of her tunic, she pulled a thin chain, from which dangled the silver Ferelden coin he had given her - his lucky token, given to _him_ in childhood by a brother who'd wanted to be remembered when he went away. Cullen let out a low laugh, the sound almost sad as he touched the shining coin.

"That's ... less comforting than I'd hoped," he admitted, holding her gaze for a long moment, tender love and terrified misery warring in his expression. Gentle arms wrapped about her waist, pulling her into a heartfelt embrace, his breath warm against her neck as he whispered to her. "Whatever happens, Ame ... you _will_ come back."

She pressed herself close, heedless of his armor, burying her face into the warm fur of his mantle. "I certainly hope so."

His hands tightened on her. "The thought of losing you ... I can't ..."

As the anguish in his voice seared into her, Amelia knew she couldn't tell him. He was already grieving, just at the thought of her death, more vulnerable than she had ever known him before. To tell him now ... it would just be cruel. If she lost, he would have to grieve both her and the child. Even if she won, there was a high probability she would lose the child. She couldn't do that to Cullen. He would suffer enough over the what ifs until Corypheus showed himself; telling him about the baby would only cause him more grief. Held there in his arms, Amelia made her decision, leaving her fate - and the fate of her unborn child - in the Maker's hands. One more chance, to prove He really did care for His children.

"You will never lose me," she promised her distraught husband, raising her head to meet his eyes with earnest sincerity. "You've already tried to get rid of me once, and look how that turned out."

In spite of himself, Cullen laughed again, closing his eyes briefly as his forehead came to rest against her own. "Do you plan on giving me another scar to remember you by?" he asked, his warm tone affectionate.

Amelia felt herself smile in answer. "I think there are better ways to make memories," she murmured, stepping back to take his hand in hers.

With fingers tangled, she lead him out of the chapel, through the cloister, with barely a word of protest from him. Through the main hall, where no one stopped them, up the interminable stairs, to their quarters, and privacy. And the memory they made there was soft and slow, filled with loving words and tender touches. It wasn't goodbye, but rather, and affirmation of what it had taken six years of marriage to discover - that love, _their_ love, could overcome any obstacle, if they just had the courage to believe. Her faith in the Maker might well have been shaken, but nothing could shake her faith in her husband. And that, for now, was enough.


	33. Chapter 33

It was over.

Corypheus lay dead, his form scattered to the winds; the Breach was finally, irrevocably sealed. And the Inquisitor _lived_ , not only victorious, but triumphant, too. Oh, there were still rifts that needed closing, chaos to calm, and opportunists to put down, but the war was won.

Skyhold rang with the sound of that triumph, hundreds of voices raised to the sky in cheering relief that the great danger was passed. From coast to coast, the news spread like a brush-fire, burning all in its wake - the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisition had delivered the world from the worst threat it had ever faced, and they had done it against the odds, against the wishes of many who had sought to prevent them ever raising the strength to do just that. Better news followed it - the Chantry had finally elected a new Divine; not a revered mother, as many had predicted, but a lay sister ... Sister Nightingale, the Left Hand of the former Divine. Her ascension to the sunburst throne promised to ruffle more than a few feathers, but with the open support of the Inquisitor, no one dared to object to her election.

Their joy did not come undimmed by sadness, though. There had been no word from Hawke since she had left to travel to Weisshaupt; rumors flew in Orlais that the Grand Duke was planning another attempt to assume the throne. And for the Inquisition, there was an unexpected loss - Solas had not been seen since Corypheus' fall. Both he and the shattered orb that had caused so much trouble had vanished, and not even Leliana could trace him. Yet, for all that they felt his absence, the Inquisition had earned the right to celebrate.

Josephine had risen to the occasion magnificently, calling in favors from far and wide to throw together a banquet just five days after Corypheus' defeat. Every detail belonged to her, and for once, Amelia didn't argue when she was ushered into a room with an Orlesian seamstress. She'd earned the right not to wear armor for a single evening, and besides, it was worth it to see Josie smile like that.

"Oh, milady, you look beautiful," Elin gushed as she stepped back to review her handiwork. "Doesn't she look beautiful, commander?"

"Mmm?" Cullen just barely glanced up from where he was studying reports at Amelia's desk ... and then looked up properly, his eyes skimming over every inch of his wife's form with more than mere admiration.

Resplendent in crimson silk that clung and flared in all the right places, her thick, dark hair coiled about her head in an elaborate crown of braids, Amelia looked more like a princess than a mere Inquisitor. Acutely aware of her husband's open admiration, she twisted back and forth in front of the mirror, examining herself critically.

"I'll do, I suppose," she said eventually, laughing at Elin's indignant squawk.

"You'll outdo them all, milady," the elven girl said stoutly, gathering up an armful of laundry as she left the room. "That dress is gorgeous!"

She left the room silent for a long moment. Amelia didn't dare look up at Cullen, though she could feel his gaze burning through the silk she wore as she studied her reflection. The gown was not Orlesian; it wasn't of the style of the Free Marches, either. It was unique, and after tonight, this style would no doubt grace as many courts as could afford to copy it. But tonight, it was all her own, and despite her dislike of being the center of attention, she found she liked the idea of being the first in the world to brave a new style.

"I have to agree, Ame," Cullen offered finally, pushing away from the desk to join her at the mirror. "You are breath-taking."

"Maker's breath-taking?" she asked innocently, giggling as he growled into her neck, wrapping his arms about her waist from behind.

"Maybe later," was the sultry promise whispered against her ear as her eyes found his in the reflection of the glass before them. "Will you dance with me tonight?"

"Only if you promise to dance with me at the party," she countered, jumping as he pinched her side lightly in retaliation for her act of deliberate misunderstanding. "Ouch! Be nice, commander ... you have to be gentle with me for a while."

"I thought I was always - Wait." His brow creased in confusion. "Why gentle especially now?"

Amelia held his gaze in their shared reflection, her hand smoothing his downward to rest over the crown of her womb. "Because our child has been through enough this year, don't you think?"

Cullen stilled at her back, his expression suddenly slack. She knew what he could feel beneath his palm - the tiny prominence of her jutting womb, unnoticeable unless you knew it was there. She watched his reflection fondly, marking his thoughts as they clouded his eyes - her discomfort, her fatigue, her sensitivity in recent weeks, all suddenly making the best sense in the world. Then came the shock she had been expecting - that she had gone to face Corypheus knowing she carried their child in her womb; that both had come through the horrific battle well and whole. And finally, a slow smile lit his face, joy filling his loving gaze at the certainty that here, beneath his hand, lay the future they had promised each other - a future that did not belong to the Inquisitor or the Commander, but to Cullen and Amelia.

"How long have you known?" he breathed in wonder, the press of his hand gently tightening protectively over the tiny bump at her waist.

"About ten days," she admitted, a little wary of his reaction to this. "It ... it didn't seem fair to tell you, not when Corypheus was still a threat."

"Not _fair_ ..." Despite his horror at knowing he had sent not only his wife but also their unborn child directly into danger, Cullen found himself laughing. He turned her about in his arms, gathering her close to smile into the smooth crown of braids that encircled her head. "For future reference," he murmured to her dryly, " _fair_ doesn't come into it."

"I promise I will never attack a darkspawn magister while pregnant again without your permission," she assured him, feeling him laugh again as his arms tightened around her. No armor tonight to keep them apart; he had conceded to Josephine's argument and deigned to wear the uniform that had adorned them all at Halamshiral, as handsome this evening as he had been then.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, his exasperated tone softened by the very real love that shone down on her through his gaze.

"Celebrate with me, with all our friends," she told him, half-impish, half-serious. "And live happily ever after."

"That ... I can do." He bent his head to grave her lips with a smiling kiss, his fingers smoothing her back as they lingered in that moment together. "No child has ever had a kinder, more brilliant, more beautiful mother," he whispered against her lips. "If a little reckless."

Amelia giggled into his kiss. "So ... no dragon-baiting until they're eighteen?" she asked playfully.

His eyes narrowed, not entirely sure she was joking about that. Her prowess at dragon-hunting was close to legendary just within Skyhold - when the world at large learned she had taken down not just Corypheus' archdemon, but also ten other rogue High Dragons across Ferelden and Orlais, her legend was going to blow entirely out of proportion. On the other hand ... he _really_ didn't want her to encourage their children to take their lives into their hands like that.

" _No_ dragon-baiting, ever," he countered firmly, feeling his lips quirk at her answering snicker.

She grinned sweetly up at him. "You will be a wonderful father," she promised, absolutely certain of that deep in her soul. Cullen was made to be a father; it was only too easy to imagine him surrounded by little people who bore his golden curls. "But Josephine _will_ strangle me if we don't go down soon."

"I'll go down later," he told her. "But you're right - we should join the celebration first." He laughed at the deep blush that colored her cheeks, accepting the gentle thump of her fist against his arm in answer for that tease. "Come along, Inquisitor, I should let you mingle. I'm sure everyone desires your attention ... as much as I might want it for myself."

The main hall was alive with music and chatter, the visiting nobles for once outnumbered by the Inquisition itself. Lamps burned brightly, the tables were laden with food. Everywhere were smiling faces. The relief in the air was palpable - they had come through, they had _won_. And there was no denying who had lead them to victory. As Amelia entered on Cullen's arm, the hall erupted into cheering adulation for their Commander and their Inquisitor, the raucous acclaim only growing louder as Amelia gestured for _all_ her friend and advisers to join her. She hadn't done it alone, and she wasn't going to let _anyone_ forget it. So long as she lived, they would remember.

The Inquisitor was already a legend, though her story was far from done. But with her stood Leliana, the Nightingale, soon to be Divine Victoria; Josephine, who had held them all together; Cullen, her husband, and the best leader their army could have asked for. It was their guidance that had brought the Inquisition here, through so many trials and setbacks. It was Cassandra who had created the Inquisition; Varric and Solas who had first given Amelia the courage to step up and take responsibility for the world outside herself. Vivienne, who had guided her through the murky politics of the broken Circles; Sera, who had kept her grounded, never letting her forget the real people whose lives she affected with each decision she took. Dorian, who had braved so much prejudice to stand at her side; Iron Bull, who had proved that personal loyalty should always trump the institutions that saw no value in it; Cole, who had taught her to stay gentle, not to judge a person by what, but by _who_ they are; Thom Rainier, who had taken responsibility for his past actions, and through it all stayed true to the friendships he had built with them all; Morrigan, who had risked so much and still fought at her side. She could not have defeated Corypheus without them, and they deserved the world to know it. They were all, in Sera's words, big frigging heroes.

Amelia raised her hand for quiet, smiling at the joyful faces around her. "This isn't just _my_ victory," she told the cheering crowd gathered in the hall, knowing her words would be relayed to those who had chosen to celebrate outside. "This victory belongs to all of us. To all of _you_. I couldn't have asked for better friends. I am proud of each and every one of you, and I know I wouldn't be standing here without you. To you, the Inquisition!"

_"The Inquisition! The Inquisitor!"_

Drinks were raised, toasts were made, music played. It was a night for celebration, to forget cares and worries for just a few hours and bask in the knowledge of a job well done. From the highest to the lowest, there was laughter and joy, and through it all, Amelia found herself at the center, for once not begrudging their interest and focus on her. Each time she felt the weight of their regard, somehow her gaze found Cullen's, and the soft warmth of promise in his eyes restored her courage. Even Josephine was eventually relieved of her quill and forced to actually _enjoy_ the party she had put together, though it had taken a lot of cajoling from Leliana to make it happen.

"What were you going to do if she still said no?" Amelia asked her former spymaster curiously.

"If she is determined to be stubborn, a knife tends to get Josie's attention," the redhead shrugged innocently. "Try the _petit-fours_ \- just not the dark ones dusted with gold."

"Divine Victoria, I'm shocked! Violence from the Chantry, how scandalous." Amelia gasped teasingly, laughing at the mischievous look she got in return. "Why shouldn't I eat the dark ones?"

"Deep mushroom and anise," Leliana told her with a grimace. " _Definitely_ not in your condition. And I am not Divine yet."

"Maker, they sound revolting," Amelia laughed. "And you will be ... wait, what about my condition? How did _you_ know?"

Leliana chuckled at the surprise on her face. "Didn't you know, my lady? I know _everything_ ," she teased playfully. "Enjoy the evening, Inquisitor."

She left Amelia by the banqueting table, still trying to work out how her spymaster had known about the secret she'd been so sure only five people knew, three of whom were sworn to silence and one of those not even in the fortress any longer. A low chuckle brought her back to the moment, finding Thom standing beside her, eyeing her faraway expression in amusement.

"Warden Rainier," she greeted him warmly, setting her plate down. If the little cakes had deep mushroom in them, who knew what was in everything else? "I'm glad you survived the Joining."

"As am I, my lady," he said in his gruff, warm way. "You're not supposed to know it's Joining or death, though."

"I won't tell a soul," she promised. Truth be told, she had badgered Stroud about the Joining incessantly, deeply worried about what might happen to her friend. The Senior Warden had eventually told her, just to make her leave him alone.

"So now you've saved the world, what's next?" Thom asked her curiously. "Hoping to put it all back together?"

She sighed comically, rolling her eyes. " _Someone_ has to fix things," she pointed out. "Might as well be me."

"If anyone can do it, you can," he told her confidently. "You fixed me, and that was no small task. If you ever need my help, Amelia, you know where to find me. I'll be ready."

"You called me Amelia," she said in surprise. "You've never used my name before."

"It's what you do with friends, isn't it?" he countered in amusement. "And you're the finest friend I could ask for. I'm grateful to have met you, Amelia Rutherford."

She smiled, leaning up to kiss his stubbled cheek. "I'm proud to call you my friend, Thom Rainier."

To her delight, he blushed at the friendly gesture. "Never thought I'd be glad to have you know that name," he admitted ruefully. "Thank you, for not leaving me to my folly."

"You would have done the same for me, were our positions reversed," she answered, absolutely confident of that, even if he wasn't.

"Go and enjoy your party, my lady," he told her in turn, uncomfortable with her faith in him.

"Only if you will dance with me, Warden Rainier." She wasn't going to let him get away without a dance - he'd avoided it at Halamshiral, but if Cullen was prepared to dance tonight, then Thom was not getting away without strutting his stuff with the Inquisitor himself.

And he wasn't the only one. This wasn't the Winter Palace; no one was watching like a hawk, ready to pass judgment on anything deemed even slightly out of the ordinary. Thus no one thought anything of the Inquisitor dancing with anyone who asked her, from her husband, to Sera, to the Iron Bull; even little Elin and the unfortunate messenger who had interrupted so many of her private moments with Cullen over the last few years. Nor were there any disapproving mutters when Dorian took his turn, twirling his Marcher cousin and closest friend about the hall in a dance usually reserved for lovers.

"I was passing through the hall this morning, and a serving girl saw me and squealed," he shared as they danced. "Actually squealed - dropped her laundry and everything. She was completely breathless." Amelia laughed at his nonplussed expression; louder, as he pushed his voice to an uncomfortable falsetto to continue. " _You were at the battle with the evil one, weren't you?_ I didn't even get a chance to answer. She hugged me. _Hugged_ me. This is _your_ influence."

The fond look he gave her was so far from a disapproving scowl that Amelia had to gasp for breath through her giggles. "I wish I had seen it," she managed to say. "This is what happens when you're a hero, Dorian."

"Is that so? Must be why it's so unfamiliar." He grinned at her, spinning her out and back in with the motion of the dance, both of them careful not to put too much strain on his newly-healed leg. "Mind you, I can't say I hate the notion of being the _good_ Tevinter. _I suppose you can't all be evil bastards_ \- the blacksmith said that, and he _spat_ when we first met." He chuckled, hugging Amelia warmly. "I hope my father hears. He will shit his smallclothes with shock, I swear."

"He might be proud of you," she suggested hopefully. "I know I am. You're an example of how noble Tevinter could be."

Dorian shook his head with a knowing smile. "For southerners, maybe. Back home, they'll be rolling their eyes behind their fans."

Amelia's answering smile was just a little sad. _Back home_. Dorian was not likely to stay with them much longer, not when Tevinter needed him. "I'll miss you," she told him sincerely.

"That's awfully sweet of you, but you won't need to for a while," he assured her affectionately. "I've decided to stay with the Inquisition, for now."

Her eyes lit up with delight. "You will?"

Dorian's smile was warm and familiar as he kissed her forehead. "Tevinter lacks the presence of my best and only friend," he said gently. "It'll keep."

"And a certain Qunari," she added, laughing as he rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that too, if you want to relegate yourself to second place," he conceded, his own chuckle joining her giggles as he escorted her back to her husband's side. "And when you two make a start on this family you're so obviously set on, I expect to be memorialized in the name of at least _one_ of the dozen children you should be working on."

Cullen laughed at their friend's suggestion. "A daughter, naturally."

"Naturally," Dorian agreed, his eyes fond as he looked at them. Such a difference from the awkward couple they had been just two years ago. "Well, I have a Bull to debauch, so if you would excuse me ..."

"Are you sure you're related to him?" Cullen asked in amusement as the Tevinter mage sashayed away to seat himself on Iron Bull's lap comfortably.

"And proud of it," Amelia confirmed fondly, leaning against him with a soft sigh.

His smile gentled, his arm snaking about her waist to hold her close as they surveyed the hall. Sera, sitting on Dorian, sitting on Bull; Varric bent over his parchment, scribbling down notes for the story he may or may not write; Vivienne attempting to cozy up to Leliana while Josephine looked on in amusement; Cole sitting next to Mayden as she played, a happy smile on his face; Lace Harding telling outrageous stories of the Inquisitor as Thom cajoled Cassandra into dancing with him. Despite the one glaring absence, they were hale and happy, looking to the future with hope.

"You know," Cullen sighed softly against her ear, "I don't know what happens after this. And I don't mind."

Amelia smiled, drawing his hand over the little bump that wouldn't remain their secret for very much longer. _This_ was what happened next for them. No matter what the Inquisition's role over the years to come, the life beneath his palm was _their_ future. And despite it all - the pain and suffering, the losses and humiliations - she found she really couldn't ask for more. This was all she wanted, all she needed, right here. She sighed happily, nestling back into his embrace.

"Neither do I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over! There is an epilogue in the works, which will _not_ be Post-Trespasser, leaving this Inquisitor open for me to come back to at some point if the muse strikes. You know, just in case. ;)


	34. Chapter 34

Blizzards in the Frostbacks could be brutal.

On nights like this, when the wind howled and the snow danced, it was easy to believe in the Avvar gods; to believe in a world where every element was controlled by a divine being that did not see the mortals who walked Thedas as anything but an inconvenience. On nights like this, shutters were fastened tight, fires were built high; men and women alike waited for the new day with trepidation, for who knew what the storm would bring?

But tonight, Skyhold held its breath. The workers, soldiers, scouts, servants ... they gathered together in outbuildings and reinforced tents to wait out the storm, no one content to sleep so long as the lamps still burned in the Inquisitor's tower. The main hall was eerie in its silence, a single candle left to flicker by the throne of judgment. A visitor could be forgiven for thinking that some great tragedy had befallen. Yet this visitor knew otherwise, climbing the steps of the tower in haste to where a small group waited together by the door to the Inquisitor's rooms.

"Did I miss it?" Cassandra asked as she threw back her hood, breathless from her rush through the fortress from the stables.

"Andraste's knickers, Seeker, did you ride through _this?_ " Varric demanded, almost impressed by the woman's determination to be here.

"Why should I not have?" Cassandra said defensively. "I made a promise." She paused, looking around at them all. "Well?"

"Nothing yet," the Iron Bull told her, pouring a fresh cup of ale. "Pull up a seat."

As Cassandra gratefully took the cup, sinking down onto the bench beside the Qunari, Thom looked up from his cards. "Midwife's been in there a good few hours," he told the Seeker. "Shouldn't be long now."

"I thought you were assigned to Soldier's Peak," Cassandra queried curiously, surprised to find the Warden here.

Thom chuckled, shaking his head. "I am," he admitted. "Just happened to get snowed in here."

"He waited four days to _get_ snowed in," Bull added with a grin, raising his cup to the temerity of the bearded human.

"Ugh, why'd the Maker decide babies take so long, anyway?" Sera complained impatiently. "And be so _painful_. How's that fair?"

"Where is Cullen?" Cassandra asked, ignoring the outburst from the Red Jenny.

"I believe he threatened to give the midwife a black eye if she tried to eject him from the chamber," came the answer from Josephine amid a few quiet chuckles. The ambassador seemed to have brought her work up here to wile away the time, rather than join in the half-hearted game of Wicked Grace that was ongoing.

"She took _him_ seriously," Dorian said a little peevishly from his anxious station by the door.

"Sparkler, everyone knows you wouldn't set fire to the one woman who is capable of delivering this kid," Varric pointed out mildly.

"I might have singed her," the mage objected. "Sadly, even in times of distress, I have impeccable manners."

"And Amelia would have singed _you_ if you'd tried," Sera snickered.

"Dorian, darling, Cullen _is_ the father," Vivienne interjected, raising her head from her book. "A cousin however many times removed by marriage just doesn't carry the same weight in this argument."

"It should," Dorian responded, almost pouting at being shut out. " _I_ might even be useful. All he's doing is standing around."

"Come and sit, _kadan_ ," Bull told his lover calmly. "Like the Warden said, won't be long now." He drew Dorian down onto the bench between himself and Cassandra, not taking no for an answer.

"Hey, kid," Varric said then, turning to the last member of their little vigil, "how're they doing in there?"

Cole looked up, his smile almost beatific beneath the wide brim of his ridiculous hat. "Blood and gore and pain, and at the end, tears and hope and love," he said in his familiarly cryptic fashion. "Tiny hands, bright eyes, loving laughter at clumsy kisses. She is happy."

"Sounds like you arrived just in time, Seeker," the dwarf chuckled, shuffling the deck of cards in his hands.

As he spoke, the door opened, and an exhausted Cullen all but staggered into view, flushed and disheveled, smiling through the tear-tracks that stained his face. His gaze swept the little vigil being kept on the landing, his chuckle deepening at the sight of nine pairs of expectant eyes watching him as Dorian leapt to his feet, seizing the commander's arm.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense, Curly," Varric drawled, as eager as the rest of them to know.

"Is she ...?" Dorian tried to ask, but instead let out a strangled yelp as Cullen dragged him into a rough embrace.

"She's well," the commander said finally, dashing yet more happy tears from his face. "The midwife is just ... making them comfortable." A slow look of absolute wonder grew on his face as he dropped into the nearest chair. "I have a daughter," he told them, his voice low with unrestrained awe. "And a son."

_"Two?"_ It was Cassandra's turn to yelp as Sera let out a loud whoop, startling the Seeker badly with the abrupt noise in the quiet of the tower.

"Congratulations, Cullen." Thom grinned over at the new father, chuckling as Cullen downed the drink Iron Bull pressed into his hand almost in one gulp.

"And both healthy?" Vivienne asked, though it was doubtful Cullen would be so mirthful if that were not the case.

"Both perfect," the commander breathed, in love with the little trio in the tower room above. "All three of them, perfect."

"Their names?" Josephine asked hopefully, her quill hovering over a blank piece of parchment. It could be reasonably assumed that the letters sent to Ostwick and the South Reach were going to be penned by her, and hopefully signed by the new parents.

"Cassian Bran," Cullen told them, his eyes flickering toward a suddenly wide-eyed Cassandra. "For the woman who brought us back together."

"Cullen ..." The Seeker was speechless. What could she possibly say to that?

His smile was gentle in the face of her shock. "I don't think you know how much your friendship means to Amelia," he told her quietly. "Especially given the way it began."

"Crackling warmth of fire in winter, summer sunshine on red roses, a family without blood," Cole offered, patting Cassandra's shoulder. For once, she didn't flinch from him, overwhelmed by the name her friends had given their son.

"And ... your daughter?" Josephine pressed, keen to know as much as Cullen could tell.

"Dorea Liane," Cullen offered innocently.

There was a pause, and Dorian abruptly sat down with a thump, shaking a finger at the new father. "Maker's balls, you actually did it," he exclaimed in shock. "I wasn't serious!"

" _We_ were," Cullen told him, grinning at the look on the mage's face as Bull snorted with laughter. "She's beautiful, if that's any consolation."

"Of course she is, look at who her parents are," Dorian responded automatically, a touched smile quirking his mustache. "I'm honored, Cullen. Truly."

"As am I," Cassandra agreed, glad Dorian had found the words that had been eluding her. Honored, touched, moved ... all these and more.

"So what about me?" Sera demanded, though her mischievous smile clearly stated she wasn't as put out as she pretended to be, having been overlooked in the naming department.

"Apparently the next one is going to be called Jenny." Cullen chuckled, slightly in awe of a woman who could say something like that less than an hour after birthing twins.

Sera considered this for a moment, and nodded. "That'll do."

"A toast, then," Vivienne suggested, offering up her own bottle of expensive wine to allow a small measure to be poured into each cup held by each hand.

Varric raised his tankard, the best among them to form something coherent in the midst of a sleepless, joyful night, and they each echoed his motion, glad to be witness to such a significant moment.

"To the Duchess, who really doesn't know to do things by halves; to Curly, who deserves this more than anyone else I know; to Cassian and Dorea, who don't know what all the fuss is about; and to us, the weirdest bunch of people ever to call themselves family."

"To family," Thom translated, and that was their toast, shared with warmth and laughter to celebrate the arrival of two very special children on the coldest night of the year.

Congratulations were shared until the midwife left the tower, and Cullen slipped away from the now merry gathering to return to his wife, to gather her into his arms and kiss her tenderly as they lay together in the glow of satisfaction and elation at the wonderful gift they had been given. Not one, but two, little lives had survived that encounter with Corypheus to be born tonight, three years after their mother had fallen from the Fade and into a new role no one could ever have predicted for her. Seven years, to the day, after their parents had exchanged vows as strangers to satisfy a driven woman's political whim. Meredith Stannard might have been insane, but of all her works, this one might go down as the most brilliant - the joining of this couple, and the foundation of this family.

And somewhere out there, beyond the walls and the whirling snow, a lone wolf howled his blessing on the new lives to the skies, wishing he could give them a better tomorrow. But he was set on his path. Today would just have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done. Amelia might prick at me to write more from time to time, so don't think her story is over, but for now, it's time I let this iteration of the Inquisitor rest. Thank you all for reading along with me - your comments and kudos have been so inspiring to keep me on track in spite of everything else going on here. Thank you!


End file.
